A Somnambulistic Conundrum
by ArkadyRose
Summary: Investigating the case of the Cessarine Majeste, Holmes is plagued by nightmares in which he sleepwalks, always drawn towards Watson's presence. But what is the deeper secret behind the mystery of the Cessarine Majeste, and why is Holmes' life in danger?
1. Chapter 1

The first time it happened, Holmes was completely at a loss to understand what had happened or how he had come to be there. He had emerged slowly from a deep, exhausted sleep to find himself curled up upon the settee, his head resting upon Watson's thigh, both arms flung loosely around the good doctor's waist; Watson's hand rested gently upon his shoulder. Holmes had blinked up at Watson, a look of baffled confusion upon his face; Watson had simply smiled reassuringly, patted him slightly awkwardly then sent him off to his own bed. They did not speak of it the next morning.

It was a while before it happened again. This time, it happened shortly after the conclusion of a stressful case in which Holmes had nearly drowned in the weir up by Camden Lock. The following morning Holmes woke suddenly from clinging dreams of dark weed twining around his wrists and throat, and slick wood upon which his fingers could find no purchase before the slimy foul waters dragged him down again; he woke with a gasp, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, for a moment not realising where he was. It took a few moments to realise he was in Watson's room. In Watson's bed. Cuddled up to a warm, peacefully sleeping Watson. He sat up suddenly, shocked; he silently disentangled himself from the doctor then fled silently from the room to the sanctuary of his own bedchamber where he closed the door and locked it behind himself before running his long fingers through his sleep-disarrayed hair, aghast. After a while he slipped between the cold sheets of his own bed and tried to sleep again.

He did not breathe a word of the nocturnal occurrence to Watson, ever.

He had never been prone to sleep-walking before; of that, he was certain. He could not fathom this strange behaviour, nor why his unconscious self should have sought out Watson in this way. He could only assume that his near-drowning experience had discomposed his normal confidence and led him to seek out the only available source of comfort whilst he was not in conscious control of his body. He trusted that it would not happen again.

And indeed it did not for several months, until Watson went away for a few days at the behest of an old Army chum. Holmes was not unduly bothered by the separation; he had a case at hand which he was intent upon that would require all his concentration and time in any case, and it was unlikely he would even notice Watson's absence. Or so he told himself as Watson departed.

He studiously ignored how empty their rooms seemed even before the waiting hansom drew away with the good doctor. The days would pass quickly; of that he was certain.

And indeed the days passed much as he had supposed they would; the case progressed apace and came to the usual successful conclusion the very morning Watson was due to return. Holmes was in a rare good humour that day as a result; he went out for a good lunch at Simpson's, then attended a delightful violin recital that afternoon by way of celebration. He walked home instead of opting for a cab, his footsteps light and his mood content for once as he leapt up the seventeen steps to the sitting room. Watson had not returned, so he entertained himself with essaying a few of the delightful airs he had heard that afternoon on his Stradivarius. He slowly nodded off in his chair by the fire, cradling his violin to his narrow chest as his head lowered, drifting into a profound slumber. The bow dropped from sleeping fingers to lie unheeded beside his chair as silence filled the room.

He was still deeply asleep when Watson finally returned a couple of hours later. The doctor smiled fondly down at his sleeping friend. Gently picking up the bow, he carefully lifted the violin free from the limp arm that cradled it, and placed bow and violin back in their case. Holmes slept on, insensate. Watson fetched a blanket and draped it over him, tucking it in; Holmes sighed and murmured something in his sleep, stirring restlessly before settling into stillness once more. Watson took his valise through to his room, then returned to sit in his favourite chair and smoke his pipe awhile, watching the sleeping face of the detective.

After a little while, a curious thing happened. Holmes' long, aquiline nose twitched as the pipe smoke reached his sensitive nostrils, and he muttered something incoherent; his fingers twitched then closed spasmodically upon the edge of the blanket. His eyelids fluttered briefly then settled again; he sighed and murmured Watson's name. He appeared to be dreaming; and then he sat up suddenly, his eyes flying wide open. Watson opened his mouth to speak but then paused; his friend's gaze was blank and glassy. He seemed to stare into space for a moment, then slid to his knees upon the rug, the blanket falling aside unheeded. As Watson watched, curious, Holmes swayed for a moment, then fell forward onto his hands and began to crawl towards him. "Holmes?" whispered Watson, leaning forward to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder. Holmes pulled himself up on the arm of Watson's chair, then awkwardly sagged down into a semi-sitting position. With a small sigh, he pillowed his arms upon Watson's knees, and then lowered his head to rest upon them. Slowly his weight grew heavier and he slumped down as he passed back into a deeper sleep.

Watson frowned; he was effectively trapped by the sleeping Holmes, but he knew all too well how rare it was that his friend was able to sleep as peacefully as this and was unwilling to disturb him. Sighing, Watson reached and grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace; with a bit of effort, he was able to use it to hook the blanket and drag it towards him. He carefully draped it around the sleeping Holmes, then sat back and puffed thoughtfully upon his pipe.

About an hour later, Holmes stirred again, whuffling slightly into the blanket before suddenly jerking upright and away from Watson's legs, startled. "Easy, old chap!" Watson soothed, patting a bony shoulder. Holmes blinked, bewildered, catching at the blanket as it slipped down from his shoulders.

"Watson! But what - how...?" His voice tailed off. He frowned, glancing around. "My apologies, old boy; I seem to have dropped off whilst I awaited your return, though I cannot account for how I came to be here; I am certain I was sitting in my own chair."

"Sleep walking, old cock; think nothing of it," replied Watson.

"I don't sleep-walk," replied Holmes, his tone one of distraction. "Or at least, I don't _think_ I do..."

"Are you alright, Holmes?" asked Watson.

"Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?" snapped Holmes as he launched himself to his feet and began to pace the room.

"You seem -" began Watson but got no further as Holmes threw up his hands in vexation.

"I am _fine, _I tell you!" He turned on his heel and stalked off to his room, the stiffness of his spine and the set of his shoulders speaking eloquently of the discomfort he'd disavowed.

Perplexed, Watson sat back and pondered a while. After a while he rose, walked over to his bookcase, and extracted his old folder of case notes from his days in medical school. Hefting it thoughtfully, he retired to his bedroom.

As he closed the door behind himself, Holmes dropped his face into his hands and slumped against the door, sliding down it until he sat upon the floor. He was at a loss to explain it. He had _never_ been prone to sleep-walking in the past; why should he begin now? And yet it seemed that was indeed what must have happened, for it was plain Watson had, at least on this occasion, witness him do precisely that. He thought back on the previous occasions he recalled, and wondered anew. The first such time - well,perhaps he had merely misremembered where he had fallen asleep. The second, though; how aware had Watson been? Certainly the good doctor had been asleep when Holmes had awakened next to him - but had he been asleep when Holmes had somehow stumbled into his room in the grip of some unconscious, somnambulistic impulse?

And why did he seem to continuously seek Watson out in such fashion? He had never before craved such close physical affection for another, at least not consciously. It was intolerable to think he might be imposing such physical intimacy upon his good friend, regardless of the equanimity with which Watson dealt with it. He, Holmes, was not comfortable with it - with this seeming betrayal of his own body!

What could be done? Knowing what had been happening, he was loath to allow it to continue. He would lock his bedroom door tonight, and each night hereafter. He could not impose himself upon Watson if he could not leave his bedchamber.

And for a while, this seemed to work. There were no further episodes in which he awakened in some other place than he had fallen asleep in, and he did not find himself embracing the person of his dear friend again. Watson regarded him curiously a few mornings, but Holmes refused to be drawn into discussion of the subject, deliberately changing the subject every time Watson tried to bring it up.

And then one morning Homes awoke to find himself snuggled up against Watson again,in Watson's bed. Somehow he had unlocked the door in his sleep. The key in the lock no longer sufficed. Horrified, Holmes had fled back to his own room, unheeding of the look of hurt in Watson's eyes as he was abandoned again.

The next night, he handcuffed one wrist to the bedstead.


	2. Chapter 2

He stared at the cold metal cuff locked fast to his slender wrist; he couldn't help but shudder slightly at the harsh feel of the metal against his flesh. Had it really come to this - that he could not trust his own mind? The thought was abhorrent; and yet, here he was, chained to his own bed. He lay back with a frustrated sigh. He resigned himself to a possibly sleepless night; although he'd woken up in cuffs once before - naked, at that - this was the first occasion he could recall going to sleep cuffed. He twisted his wrist briefly, and found the resulting clink of the chain less reassuring than he would have liked. He turned his face towards the wall and closed his eyes.

The water was icy cold and black like ink. He was exhausted; it was getting harder to stay afloat. He tried to reach up out of the water, but snaking tendrils of weed held him fast. He tried to kick his feet free but was growing weaker. His head slipped briefly beneath the water; choking and spluttering, he strained for the surface. One hand stroked the smooth, oily slick surface of the wooden lock gate but the other was held fast by the water weed. He could feel strands wrapping themselves around his throat as the powerful current dragged him down again; his nails scrabbled to find purchase in vain. He was drowning, and this time there would be no Watson to pull him free. He was going to die here, alone; the weir would become his watery grave. He panicked and tried to scream but black water filled his nose and throat, choking, drowning him...

"Holmes? _Holmes!"_

The weeds tightened about his shoulders; he thrashed desperately and tried to scream again but he was caught, held, suffocated, unable to breathe for the tight constriction about his chest, his throat; the more he struggled, the tighter it held him until his struggles weakened, slowed... ceased...

It was the screaming which woke Watson; a panicked sound which then tailed off into choking noises as he became aware of a terrific sound of thumping and banging coming from Holmes' room. Throwing on his dressing gown, he flew down the stairs to knock on his friend's bedroom door. "Holmes? _Holmes!_" he shouted and pounded on the door. The choking noises were becoming fainter; Watson threw open the door and was at Holmes' side in a moment.

Caught in a nightmare, Holmes had thrashed so wildly in his sleep that he had all but fallen from his bed, the sheets wound tightly about his legs, chest and throat; he was held up only by a handcuff holding his bruised wrist to the bedstead, and he was slowly being strangled by the tightly-wound sheet about his throat. Even as Watson reached for him, Holmes' weak struggles ceased and his head lolled bonelessly in unconsciousness. He wasted no time but hoisted Holmes back up onto the bed and then set to work to free him from the asphyxiating bonds of the sheet. To his heartfelt relief, Holmes drew a ragged breath as his neck was freed, and then he coughed, spasmodically. Watson glanced around and spotted the key to the cuffs on the bedside table, and soon had released Holmes' wrist. He lowered himself to sit on the edge of his friend's bed, holding the slender hand in his own and gently chaffing life back into it; it was icy cold to the touch. As Holmes' breathing slowed and became more even, Watson called his name gently.

Holmes did not react at first, so Watson called again, a little more insistently. "Holmes, wake up dear fellow." The hand he held twitched slightly, and Holmes' brow furrowed slightly in a frown as his eyelids fluttered. "Come on, Holmes, open your eyes." After a moment, the eyelids fluttered again as Holmes groaned quietly, turning his face away from Watson as he lifted his free hand to the bruised flesh at his throat. He tried to speak then softly coughed once, twice. His eyes slowly fluttered open. "What..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "What happened?" His voice was low and hoarse.

"Just a nightmare, old boy," replied Watson reassuringly. "You got yourself a bit twisted up in your sheets and nearly throttled yourself, but you'll be fine." He rubbed his thumbs in circles over the delicately mottled wrist between his hands, the slender white fingers a stark contrast to his warm, brown, work-worn soldier's hands. "What were you dreaming about?"

Holmes' gaze turned from confusion to an almost glassy blankness. "I don't remember," he said flatly.

"Oh come now, Holmes; I know you better than that. You were screaming, for God's sakes!" His hand closed around the slender wrist and Holmes winced then glanced back at him.

"Let me go," he said quietly, a warning note in his voice. At once contrite, Watson gently laid the hand upon Holmes' breast, and gently traced the bruises lightly with his forefinger.

"Holmes, why were you handcuffed to your own bed?" he asked softly.

Holmes groaned and put his hands over his face, rolling away from Watson to face the wall. "Enough with your damnable questions, man; let me sleep!" he growled, voice slightly muffled. Watson tried to pat Holmes' shoulder, but Holmes flinched away. "Leave me alone!" he cried, almost plaintively. Watson jerked back with a pained expression, and then his shoulders slumped. Slowly he rose from the bed and made his way towards the door.

"As you wish, old friend," he said sadly.

Holmes sat up and turned, one hand outstretched. "Watson, wait...!" he cried, but it was too late; the doctor had already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Holmes emerged from his room very late for breakfast. Watson regarded him hopefully as he entered, setting aside his newspaper. "Holmes, old chap, about last night-"

Holmes raised a hand, forestalling him. "I would much rather not discuss it, my dear fellow; let us pretend it never happened and leave it at that." He reached over Watson's shoulder and snatched up the newspaper, scanning it briefly as he began to pace.

"Holmes, you surely can't mean-" began Watson, falling silent as Holmes paused, spun on one heel and transfixed him with a glare.

"I can, and I very much do. Let us consider the matter dropped, old boy." He gave one of his brief, quicksilver smiles, and resumed his pacing. Watson sank back into his chair with a sigh, then reached for another slice of toast.

After a while, Holmes tossed the newspaper aside and reached for his coat. Watson raised an eyebrow. "Where are you going?" he inquired as he rose and reached for his cane.

"Out for a walk; I have some errands to attend to. No no, dear boy, no need to accompany me; the weather is dreary and I can plainly see your leg is paining you today. Stay here and enjoy the fire; I shall not be long." He flashed another quick, nervous grin and then was gone.

Shaking his head, Watson reached for the paper, curious as to what Holmes had seen there to impel him out in such a hurry. Nothing had sprung out at him as being important when briefly scanning it earlier, but Holmes often picked out things which he had not. He looked at it again, but threw it aside with a sigh when still nothing gave any clue as to his friend's behaviour. He rubbed absently at his aching leg where the old war wound protested the damp weather, and wondered what was disturbing his friend's composure.

Holmes walked slowly along the canal, staring down at the water dourly. The wind ruffled up small ripples breaking up his reflection into a haze of grey wavelets and he dragged his gaze away to stare around him. The wind was bitterly cold, and as he glanced around Camden Lock it began to drizzle with rain once more. He clutched the collar of his coat closed and hunched into the rain as he began to walk slowly back along the towpath. Whatever he had hoped to find here was as elusive as his dreams last night. He paused by the closed lock gate and sat upon it, staring down into the dark water pensively.

Why here? Why did he keep dreaming of this place? He had spent only brief moments in the water before Watson had dragged him out by his collar, soaked to the skin and near-frozen by even such a brief dunking in the canal. He hadn't even seen the face of the man who had shoved him roughly from behind, so intent had he been upon the chase. For once he had been thankful that Watson's game leg had held him up so that he had been following a little way behind, otherwise things would have gone ill for him indeed.

A step behind him caused him to leap to his feet in alarm, arms raising automatically in a defensive stance; the lock keeper stepped back, hands raised placatingly. "Easy, sir, easy!" the old man cried. "I just wanted to check you were alright, sir, you were staring into the water so long."

Holmes lowered his hands, feeling awkward and self-conscious. "My apologies; I was lost in thought," he murmured, turning to go.

"Wait - aren't you the fellow that took a dunking here a few months ago?" asked the lock keeper frowning slightly in recognition. Holmes darted a glance back at him. "I? No, not I," he said, backing away.

"I'm sure-"

"You are mistaken!" snapped Holmes, and he turned away to stalk off back along the towpath towards Regent's Park. The old lock keeper shook his head and watched him go. "Well, you're a strange fish and no mistake," he muttered to himself before stomping back into his hut and slamming the door against the rain as it began to pour down in earnest.

For the next three days, Holmes was late to breakfast each day, looking more exhausted and haggard each morning. It came to a head on the third day when he finally emerged from his room several hours after his customary rising time. Watson regarded him a trifle warily over the top of his newspaper as he shuffled in, still wearing his dressing gown, hair in wild disarray. From the looks of the dark circles beneath his eyes, Holmes had not slept a wink all night or the ones preceeding; and the hand that reached for a cold slice of toast trembled slightly. Holmes hunched in his chair and munched slowly on the toast, his demeanor subdued and withdrawn. Watson straightened up in his chair, folded up his newspaper and reached for the teapot.

"Shall I pour?" he inquired; his only answer was a brief nod. Holmes appeared to be deliberately avoiding his gaze, his eyes downcast. He accepted the cup - sweetened exactly to his taste, with just the right amount of milk; Watson knew him so well - and sipped it slowly, both hands wrapped around the fine bone china teacup in an effort to stop their trembling.

"You look awful," remarked Watson quietly.

"I _feel_ awful," admitted Holmes slowly.

"Did you sleep a wink at all last night?" asked Watson, pouring himself another cup of tea. Holmes shook his head and took another sip from his own cup. Watson sighed, set down his cup and leaned forward.

"Holmes, something's wrong. I don't need your powers of observation to tell that. You're sleep-walking, having nightmares - and something's got you so rattled that you handcuff yourself to your bedstead, nearly strangling yourself on your own sheets when you sleep, and now you're too scared to even sleep at all."

Holmes lowered the cup and stared at the floor, silent. Watson got to his feet, circled around the small table, and then lowered himself stiffly to kneel beside Holmes' chair. "What's wrong, Holmes? What is it that you cannot tell me?"

Holmes bit his lip and glanced away. "It's nothing, Watson, really; please don't fuss, I -" He broke off; he wasn't fooling himself with that wavery, uncertain tone of voice and he certainly couldn't fool Watson. He swallowed hard and fell silent, then jumped when Watson laid a warm, reassuring hand upon his arm. The grip tightened ever so slightly as he instinctively tried to pull away.

"Holmes, as your friend and as your doctor, I wish you would confide in me. I cannot help you if you will not tell me what is wrong."

Holmes stared into space, his breath hitching in his chest as emotions warred upon his face - something so alien on that pale visage that Watson almost shuddered to see it. Finally, Holmes turned slowly to Watson.

"I fear I may be going mad, old chap," he whispered. He tried to smile - a brief, almost apologetic upwards quirk of his lips which was gone almost as soon as it came. Watson took the teacup hastily from suddenly nerveless fingers and set it carefully down upon the tea tray as Holmes covered his face with his hands and drew in deep, shuddering breaths. Watson laid a hand gently upon his shoulder, and at the contact Holmes made a queer, gasping little cry and slid from the chair onto his knees. Watson pulled Holmes towards him, and after a moment's resistance, Holmes slumped into his arms, fighting back sobs. Watson cuddled him gently, stroking the wild black hair and making soothing noises as Holmes clutched at his shirt front, trembling. They sat thus for a long time in a silence broken only by Holmes' ragged, hitched breathing.


	4. Chapter 4

"How long has this been going on?" asked Watson quietly as Holmes sat on the settee, his fingers clasping nervously around the delicate tea cup. Holmes stared down into the milky dregs and shifted slightly in his seat. Watson sat back in his chair, waiting patiently; he'd seen this before in so many of his fellow soldiers after Maiwand. He should have recognised the signs; the lack of sleep, the nightmares when finally sleep claimed consciousness; the shortening of temper, lack of concentration. He'd put it down to Holmes' high-strung nervous disposition, but he should have guessed there was more to it when the normally-aloof detective began seeking out comfort by sleep-walking, particularly in one who had never been prone to somnambulism before. He knew he had to let Holmes speak in his own time.

"It was the case of the _Cessarine_ _Majeste_," he replied slowly. "You remember that you fell behind me as we chased those blackguards up towards where she had been docked, and I fell into the weir by the lock?"

Watson nodded. "I remember; I fell behind, and one of them was able to get behind you and push you in."

Holmes shuddered, nearly dropping the teacup. "I would have drowned, I am sure, had you not come along in time and hauled me out like that; I am deeply indebted to you for that, Watson," he murmured. The doctor waved a hand dismissively.

"You know I would do the same in a heartbeat; it's nothing you haven't done yourself for me on more than occasion, old boy."

Holmes inclined his hand in agreement. "Nonetheless, it seems that those few moments in the water when I thought that I should die have left a deeper mark upon my mind than I would have thought possible," he replied. "My dreams have been haunted since that night; I dream that I am back in the water again, drowning, but that this time there is no-one to save me. And when I wake..."

"And when you wake...?" echoed Watson encouragingly, leaning forward.

Holmes set the cup to one side and ran a hand over his face tiredly. "John, I am all done in. Could we not discuss this later?"

Watson's face softened. "It's not just the dreams though, is it, Holmes? They are not what cause you to chain yourself to your own bed nightly, are they?"

Holes let his hand fall to his lap and stared down at the bruises encircling his wrist. The skin was mottled in dark purplish-black contusions; the nightly self-enforced imprisonment had not been kind to his bony limb. Self-consciously he pulled the dressing gown sleeve down over the bruises, well aware that such a move was pointless – Watson already knew of the bruises and the reason for them.

"I am betrayed by my own dreaming self, it seems," he said quietly. "If I do not take such measures, I no longer know where I may wake up. I tried locking my bedroom door, but it seems it is all too easy for a key to be turned in a lock even by a sleeping man." He glanced up at Watson, a sorrowful look in his eyes. "Please believe me, John; I have no desire to inflict myself upon you in such an unwarranted, intimate fashion. You are my only friend, and I would not subject you to that."

"Why not? Did you think it unwelcome?"

"How could it be otherwise?" cried Holmes incredulously. "I am not that sort of – I would never – John, you are my _friend!_"

Watson blinked in surprise. "Holmes, I do not think any the less of you for having subconsciously sought out what comfort you could when troubled by such nightmares."

"I an not an invert!" Holmes ground out from between gritted teeth. Watson raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"Do you think it matters to me whether you are or not?" he said quietly.

"It matters to _me!_" wailed Holmes, clutching at his head. "I, I cannot think straight, my head aches so..."

Watson rose to his feet, crossing the space between them in two swift strides to sink down upon the settee next to his friend. "Hush, it does not matter, you are overwrought and tired," he murmured soothingly, taking the slender man in his arms as he had earlier and rocking him gently. Holmes fell upon his shoulder, tucking his face into Watson's neck, his arms hanging limp.

"So, so tired," he whimpered, his face wet with the tears he was too exhausted to fight any longer. "Nothing makes any sense anymore..."

Watson stroked the soft black hair with one hand, rubbing gentle circles with his other hand down Holmes' back through the fraying fabric of the old dressing gown; he felt he could almost count Holmes' ribs, the man was so thin. Holmes' voice had tailed off into incoherent mumbles, muffled wet and warm against the doctor's neck. Watson wrapped his arms more tightly around Holmes and buried his face in the silky black hair, inhaling softly. Holmes fell silent, then slowly draped his arms around Watson's waist. Twisting his face up towards Watson, he whispered something Watson couldn't quite make out. Watson lifted his head and glanced down into Holmes' face. "Holmes?"

"Hold me while I sleep, John?" he repeated softly.

"Of course," he replied, gently lifting a hand to stroke a finger down Holmes' cheek. Holmes smiled faintly, his eyes already fluttering closed as he settled back.

Watson lay back on the settee, drawing Holmes down with him so the detective lay cradled against his chest, his breathing slow and even. Even after Holmes had fallen deeply asleep, Watson continued to gently stroke his hair.

_Choking... drowning... _he desperately reached for the surface, one hand breaking free but still unable to make it to the cool night air he knew was only a few scant inches from his face. The weed about his throat was choking him, strangling him slowly even as he threw himself forward. _Can't die like this... not like this..._he was so cold. _So, so cold._ A bone-deep chill that was slowly freezing him, slowing his heart even as he struggled futilely. There was weed around his shoulders now – no, _hands_, hands holding him under, drowning him, denying him his last breath, his last chance of life. He shook his head, his tears mingling with the icy black water all around, helpless against those hands. _Not like this! I don't want to die, I'm not ready to die...!_

"Holmes. Holmes, come back to me. You're safe, it's alright."

He shook his head, eyes still closed, still caught within the dream. "Can't breathe... drowning..." he gasped, writhing, desperately trying to reach for the water's surface but his arms were pinned down. He threw his head back and keened in terror, then cried out in shock as Watson shook him roughly. "Holmes, it's a dream!"

Holmes slowly opened his eyes, his struggles ceasing as he gradually remembered where he was. He lay on his back on the settee, his fingers twisted into the fabric of his dressing gown; Watson hovered anxiously over him, holding his upper arms and staring down into his face. "Do you know where you are?" he asked.

Holmes nodded slowly. "Watson... the dream..."

"I know," the doctor replied, kneeling down beside the settee and releasing his arms. Holmes freed one hand from the fabric bunched around his fingers and reached out for Watson, who took it and squeezed it reassuringly.

"It was all so real," Holmes said wonderingly. "I couldn't breathe; someone was holding me under the water, trying to drown me. I thought I was dying."

Watson nodded understanding. "You seemed to be sleeping peacefully until a moment ago when I got up to stretch my legs a little. I heard you shout from the other room; when I came back, you were writhing around, clutching at your throat and then you began gasping as though you couldn't breathe, when I thought it prudent to waken you."

Holmes sat up a little unsteadily and leaned heavily upon the arm of the settee. "I can't go on like this, old chap," he said quietly. "I shall go quite mad if this continues much longer." He looked up at Watson pleadingly. "Watson, what is wrong with me?"

Watson rose to his feet and held out a hand to Holmes. "Come on, up on your feet, old boy. Time for you to get dressed, and then I think we should take a walk."

"A walk? Where? I don't feel like a walk!" complained Holmes querulously, nevertheless allowing himself to be pulled towards his bedroom by Watson.

"Camden Lock," replied Watson briskly.

Holmes turned white.


	5. Chapter 5

Holmes sat still in the hansom for several minutes after Watson had climbed out. Watson glanced back at him.

"Well? Are you going to sit there forever, old boy, or do I have to come drag you out myself?" His raised eyebrow dared Holmes to say anything. Holmes' nostrils flared slightly and his grip on the door tightened, his knuckles whitening; but after a moment he rose to his feet, swinging the door open and stepping down to the cobbled street as Watson paid the cabbie.

"Come on, Holmes," said Watson quietly, taking his arm and leading him over to the pavement.

"This is a waste of time," hissed Holmes sotto voce. "I did not even see the face of the man who pushed me, and you yourself have said you saw nothing, only me in the water."

"You may see something to refresh your memory," replied Watson. "Besides, we were intent only on the gang that night. There may be some clue somewhere along the towpath which might reveal something about your mysterious assailant."

"Very well," muttered Holmes as they descended the stairs beside the bridge and stared around the lock. Watson lifted his cane and gestured with it just beyond the far lock gate. "The lock was partially open that night, though there was no boat within the lock," he said thoughtfully.

Holmes nodded. "It was the current caused by the gate opening that dragged me under. It was incredibly forceful, I remember."

"But if there were no boat within the lock or waiting to enter it, why should the gate be open at all?" replied Watson as he limped towards the gate in question. Holmes sat down on the nearer gate and tapped his lips thoughtfully with a gloved forefinger.

"Why indeed, unless one were planning perhaps to push someone in. Someone you did not wish to be able to climb back out again," he pondered. "Not an opportunistic act by any means."

Watson nudged the closed gate balance beam with a foot thoughtfully. "Not light; it'd take a strong man to open it."

"Mm," agreed Holmes, staring down into the water within the lock chamber. It was high and full, on a level with the water immediately upstream of the gate Watson stood by. "A boat has passed upstream," he observed, pointing out the water level within the lock. "See, the level is the same. Had it passed the other way, the water would be low, like that downstream."

"Like the water that night," replied Watson, as he nodded and stepped over the balance beam of the upper gate and eyed up the rack-and-pinion paddle mechanism. He poked his cane at the windlass key hole. "Presumably whoever set it up had a key."

Holmes shrugged. "Any man working on the waterways would have one; it means little." He continued to stare down into the dark water. A shudder ran through him that had little to do with the chillness of the wind. The water moved sluggishly, like oily black ink. Green tendrils and fronds of slimy weed adorned the downstream side of the upper gates, exposed due to the low water level within the chamber. He could almost feel again the touch of weed under his fingers, the wood slick with slime as his hands scrabbled for purchase but slid away, his body being dragged down under the cold waters by that inexorable current, the waters that chilled right through his clothes with a bone-numbing iciness, the mud and weeds at the bottom of the canal holding fast to his feet and legs, the fronds that wound about his body, his throat, as he desperately reached once more for the surface, for air, for life itself...

"Holmes! _Holmes!_ Good God man, you're as white as a sheet - come away from the water, that's it, away, you're safe, you're alright-"

Watson's arm around his waist as he swayed, Watson's voice calming him, reassuring, bringing him back from the brink as he sank down in a near-faint. He clung desperately to Watson as the doctor dragged him over to the steps up to the bridge then sat him down. Holmes closed his eyes, drawing in ragged breaths. He felt a flask being pressed to his lips and obediently swallowed the stinging, warming brandy. After a few moments he opened his eyes again, and Watson's anxious, concerned face swam into view.

"Holmes?"

"I'm alright, I'm quite alright now," he said breathlessly. "I just need a few moments to rest, old boy."  
"You gave me quite a shock; I thought you should surely fall in," replied Watson, capping the small flask of brandy and tucking it back in his pocket.  
"The water... it was rather hypnotic," replied Holmes. "It was as though I were there again..."  
"I shouldn't have brought you here," said Watson, shaking his head. "My apologies, Holmes, I should have thought what effect it might have upon you."  
"My dear boy, however were you to know?" remarked Holmes in surprise. "I had no idea myself. I have never been affected like this before."  
"Come on, Holmes," decided Watson, slipping an arm under Holmes' and helping him to his feet. "Let's get you back to Baker Street. You look as though you've seen a ghost."  
"I almost feel as though I _am _one myself," murmured Holmes in reply. He cast a last glance back at the still, cold waters as they walked back up the steps to the road. He shivered, then turned away as Watson hailed a passing hansom.

The lock-keeper watched them go with a curious look upon his face. Shrugging, he wandered back inside his hut.


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes was silent all the way back to Baker Street. He sat ramrod straight next to Watson, his hands clenched tight on the door flap, eyes staring straight ahead but without really seeing anything. Watson tried to distract him but in the end gave up, sitting back and staring out the side window as he blew a sigh through his moustache.

Holmes sprang out of the hansom on arrival at 221b and sprinted up the steps, leaving Watson to deal with the cabbie before making his slow way back up the stairs to their rooms. Holmes was sitting in his chair beside the fire, his feet drawn up and his long thin arms wrapped around his legs and resting his chin upon his knees as he stared sightlessly into the fire. He had left a trail of discarded garments in his wake from the door into the room and was now clad in shirtsleeves and trousers. Even his feet were bare, one forgotten shoe lying on its side next to his chair, the other sitting perched incongruously upon the head of the tigerskin rug like some ludicrous feline hat.

Watson divested himself of his coat and hat in more sedate manner before moving round the room to gather up Holmes' discarded clothing. Then he made his way back to his chair opposite that of Holmes and with a thankful sigh sank down into it. Taking out his cigarette case, he offered it to Holmes who took one absently. Watson took one for himself, then lit both his and Holmes' from a single match before sitting back again, watching Holmes and waiting for him to speak.

Holmes held the cigarette loosely between his index and middle fingers, as if he'd forgotten it were there,his hand trembling slightly as he sat staring into the fire. "I can't get the dreams out of my mind," he said steadily. "Every time I close my eyes, it is as though I were back there again." He turned his head and stared at Watson. "Why can't I get it out of my head? Why cannot I order my thoughts properly? I refuse to let this affect me upon an emotional level, and yet it still works its horrible fascination upon me." His grey eyes seemed almost as flat and alien as the waters they still saw. "Am I going mad, Watson?" There was an unnatural calmness in his voice.

"Not mad, old chap. Not that," replied Watson soothingly.

"But I must be. My thoughts are disorganised, chaotic; I cannot control them. I can only obsess upon-" He broke off abruptly to take a drag on the cigarette, trying to calm his nerves and compose himself, the trembling in his hand more pronounced and betraying his inner agitation though outwardly his face still retained the mask-like appearance of composure.

"The water in the lock chamber – it was low that night," said Watson, trying another tack. "The pressure of the water against the upper mitre-gates must have been immense. How do you think they managed to open it, even a little?"

Holmes frowned thoughtfully, distracted by the problem; this was something his mind could work with. "I can only presume they had used a windlass key to operate the lock machinery to raise the chamber paddles, initiating the refilling of the lock chamber," he mused. "Perhaps it was that which created the current which dragged me down. I had assumed that a man would have stayed behind to open the gate, but of course that would be impossible – you saw for yourself how difficult it would be for one man unaided to open the gates even when the water is level both within and without the chamber; how much harder, therefore, it would be to open it against such an immense pressure?" He took another drag upon the cigarette. "No, it must have been by use of the windlass key. A matter of a few moments once the _Cessarine Majeste_ had passed through the lock to reopen the paddles and initiate the refilling of the chamber. Possibly even the man who pushed me – or a ready accomplice waiting nearby. We were anticipated, Watson, of that I am certain."

He brushed a shaking hand over his brow, then threw his cigarette into the fire as he leapt to his feet and began pacing aimlessly. "I cannot escape the possibility that the entire events of that night were calculated to bring about my death, Watson," he said sombrely.

"But you didn't die, Holmes," Watson pointed out. Holmes dismissed his words with an irritated wave of his hand.

"Only because I was fortunate you were with me, Watson," he replied. He paused by the sideboard and traced his fingers lovingly along the strings of his violin. His expression softened as he regarded the precious Stradivarius thoughtfully, and then he lifted it from its case. He returned to his pacing, but slower than before, tuning the violin gently by ear as he walked, fingers plucking delicately at the strings and deftly turning the tuning pegs just _so_ until the instrument sang true. Then he lifted the bow from the case, tucked the violin against his chin, and began to coax music from it. Trembling liquid notes rippled into the air, beautiful yet disquieting as Holmes stood, swaying slightly, eyes closed, sweeping the bow in slow, steady yet languorous strokes across the vibrating strings as the music poured forth. An improvisation of his own composing, Watson was sure; the tune haunting as it lilted around the room, weaving an aural spell of its own that sang of the hypnotism of water, the treachery of dark depths, tentacled weeds that waited in the depths to swallow up the unwary. Watson shuddered as he fancied he could feel the cold slick embrace of a watery grave in the depths of the music.

If the music haunted Watson it was so much more to Holmes; his body swayed to the liquid tendrils of sound that flowed from the Stradivarius, his eyes closed and beads of sweat standing out upon his pale, almost grey face which was wet and streaked with tears. It was as though he had ensorcelled himself with his own musical enchantment, reawakening the nightmare. Even as Watson watched, Holmes sank to his knees with a faint, pitiful cry, the violin finally falling silent.

Watson threw his own cigarette into the fire and sprang to Holmes' side, catching him as he swooned. He gently took violin and bow from limp fingers, laying them aside as Holmes slumped against his chest. Holmes plucked weakly at Watson's waistcoat. "What is happening to me, John?" he whispered. "Why can I not get that damnable dream out of my head? Why do I still feel as though I am drowning even here, now, in your arms?"

"You are over-tired and overwrought, dear fellow," replied Watson gently, cradling the exhausted man in his arms. "You need to rest."

Holmes stared up at him, his grey eyes haunted with fear. "I am afraid to sleep," he admitted. "John... please help me. Give me something so I won't dream. Please, I beg you."

"Holmes, I... I'm not sure..."

"_Please!_" Holmes began to cry brokenly. "I am so tired. Please, John. Please."

The sight of his strong, iron-willed friend breaking down and sobbing in his arms was almost too much for Watson to bear. Gently he gathered Holmes up in his arms and carried him through to his own bedroom. He laid him down upon the bed, then laid a finger over Holmes' pale lips to hush him before going to fetch his gladstone. When he returned to the bedroom, Holmes had dragged the eiderdown over himself and was lain back against his pillows, looking drawn and wan and most wretched indeed, although he was no longer weeping. He regarded Watson with tired, red-rimmed eyes as the doctor prepared a hypodermic with a shot of sedative, then he rolled his right sleeve up and extended his arm for the shot. A look of profound relief crossed his face as the needle slipped into his vein and released the soothing coolness of the drug into his arm. Then he sank back with a faint sigh.

Watson turned to go but was arrested by a thin hand which wrapped around his wrist. He looked down at the hand then back at Holmes, well aware that the detective lacked the strength to hold him back should he choose to pull away.

"Stay with me whilst I sleep, John," said Holmes drowsily, his eyes glazing over. "Please?"

Watson stared down at the frail hand which sought to draw him back, and placed his other hand over it, patting it reassuringly. "Of course, dear chap," he replied. He climbed up upon the bed and stretched himself out beside Holmes, taking the drowsy man in his arms.

Holmes sighed and drifted off, deeply unconscious within minutes in a dreamless sleep.

Watson stared down at the sleeping man in his arms, and tenderly stroked a few stray hairs away from the closed eyes. He trailed his fingers lightly down the side of Holmes' pale face, along the fine, strong jawline and then down the long pale throat. He let his fingers linger there for a moment, feeling the pulse leap steadily and calmly. He bent down and softly, chastely bestowed a kiss upon Holmes' forehead. Holmes did not stir, deep within the grip of the drug. Watson placed a kiss on each sleeping eye, the tip of the aquiline nose, and then finally those soft, sensuous lips. As he pulled away, he thought he saw a ghost of a smile upon Holmes' peacefully sleeping face.

"Sleep well, Sherlock," Watson breathed quietly.


	7. Chapter 7

After a while, Watson felt it was safe to leave Holmes to sleep. The dose he had given him would keep a much larger man under for a good 6-8 hours; he was certain that Holmes would be out for far longer than that, being so thin and exhausted. As it was, within perhaps half an hour of the sedative's administration Holmes was so deeply unconscious that calling his name and shaking him lightly had no effect. Watson felt it was safe enough to leave his friend sleeping whilst he went out for a short while.

He had a brief word with Mrs Hudson on the way out, asking her to keep an eye on Holmes; she nodded and agreed to look in upon him once an hour and keep her ears open for any signs or sounds of him awakening. Thus reassured that Holmes was in good hands, Watson donned his hat and coat, took up his cane and departed for Scotland Yard to discuss the _Cessarine Majeste_ case with Inspector Lestrade.

It seemed Lestrade was expecting him, for Watson was shown straight in to him when he arrived.

"Ah, Dr Watson; I was hoping you'd drop by," he greeted the doctor, waving him to a chair as he settled himself behind his desk. "I trust Mr Holmes is none the worse for his unexpected swim when last I saw him?"

"It is concerning that night I wished to speak with you," replied Watson, pulling off his gloves and setting his hat aside. "Holmes is of the opinion that someone was seeking to kill him that night, and there is more to the case than appears initially from the facts."

"Oh, that Mr Holmes!" exclaimed Lestrade, waving his hand airily. "He _theorises_ and _deduces_ from sheer thin air, that man. I don't doubt he is likely overtired and letting perhaps his imagination get carried away. He accidentally overtook one of the _Cessarine Majeste_ crew, they saw the opportunity to delay him by pushing him in the canal and took it. Where's the mystery in that?"

Watson frowned. "You've never found the results of his methods lacking before," he pointed out.

"Ah, results are one thing, doctor, but these flights of fancy of his..." Lestrade shook his head.

"Are frequently followed by hard, conclusive evidence and the successful conclusion of the case at hand," replied Watson firmly, tapping his walking stick on the floor in emphasis. "Anyway, I didn't come here to dispute your opinion of Holmes' methodology but for your help!"

Lestrade shrugged. "I'm not sure I can be much help in allaying the fears of a paranoid man, Doctor; I would have thought that was more your area of expertise, being a medical man?"

Watson struggled to his feet. "I can see I'm wasting my time here, Inspector," he said stiffly, picking up his gloves and donning his hat. "Good day, sir."

It wasn't until he was some distance from Scotland Yard that it occurred to him to wonder just what Lestrade had wanted to speak to him about; in the moment of anger after hearing Holmes thus disparaged, the matter had slipped his mind. He considered going back to find out, but pride caused him to stiffen his spine and walk on. He considered taking a cab back to Baker Street but decided against it; the walk would do him good and allow his hot temper to simmer back down again.

He had managed to rein it in by the time he reached the corner of Baker Street; indeed, he had almost managed to gain an air of joviality. He'd picked up a couple of ounces of Holmes' favourite shag tobacco to replenish the store in the Persian slipper; maybe it would cheer him up a little. He'd picked up a little bouquet of flowers from a street girl as a token of thanks for Mrs Hudson too. As he approached 221b, he saw Mrs Hudson standing on the steps waving to him. He smiled and waved back to her, hurrying his steps. He paused at the bottom of the steps, extending out the flowers with a smile which fell when he took in her distressed demeanor.

"Oh Dr Watson, I'm so sorry!" she wailed, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. "I tried to stop him but one minute he was there and then he just vanished!"

Watson lowered the flowers, for a minute not understanding. "Vanished, Mrs Hudson?"

"Mr Holmes is _gone!_"

* * *

Watson had quizzed Mrs Hudson most carefully over what had happened. It transpired that she had checked on Holmes twice on the hour after the doctor had left. Both times, Holmes had been deeply asleep, of that she could have sworn. Shortly after her second such check, there had been a parcel at the door for Mr Holmes. After signing for it, she had taken it up to their rooms and thought to just look in on him briefly – only to find his bed empty with no sign of the detective anywhere. The landing window had been ajar.

After quickly checking all rooms, Watson rapidly came to the conclusion that Holmes had left in only the clothes he stood up in – shirt sleeves, trousers, bare feet and nothing else. It was unlikely he should be in any fit state of mind to be out on the streets at all, and he strongly suspected that Holmes would still be heavily affected by the sedative. Quite possibly he might even be sleep-walking, given his state of undress.

The question now remained: where could Holmes have gone?

Poor Mrs Hudson was quite beside herself, sobbing that it was all her fault but she had only left Mr Holmes alone for maybe five minutes and she had been quite certain he had been fast asleep. She had put the parcel on the table just _there_, turned around to glance in the bedroom – and he was gone. Just like that.

"There, there, Mrs Hudson," said Watson soothingly. "You weren't to know. Who was the parcel from?"

"I have no idea," she replied, her voice quavery with tears. "I just put it down th- Oh! Now isn't that strange, doctor?" she suddenly exclaimed, walking over to the small table where she usually set down the morning tea tray. "I put it down just here – where could it have gone to?"

Before Watson could venture to answer, there was a pounding at the door downstairs. "Oh thank heavens," said Watson, breathing a sigh of relief. "That will be Lestrade and the boys."

And indeed it was. Lestrade strode into the sitting room, Clark at his shoulder with several other boys in blue on the stairs behind. "I got your telegram, doctor," grunted Lestrade as he looked around the room. "Got hisself into trouble then, has Mr Holmes, while you were visiting us down at the Yard?"

"About that-" began Watson, but Lestrade held up a hand to forestall him.

"Not now, Doctor," he said firmly. "First things first. I've got the word out all over to look out for him; Gregson's taking the docks whilst Hopkins is checking out a report of someone possibly matching his description down in Canning Town. I've got boys down at the Punchbowl in case he shows there."

Watson nodded. "I presume you'll leave a couple of lads here?" he asked. When Lestrade nodded, he gestured towards the door. "Then, Inspector, I suggest we take Camden."

"After you, Doctor," agreed Lestrade. "We'll find him, never fear. We may not go in for fancy 'theorising', but what we may lack there we more than make up for in manpower."

Somehow, Watson didn't feel much reassured.


	8. Chapter 8

He stumbled slowly along the alleyway, trailing one hand along the brick wall to steady himself. The ground seemed to be swaying beneath his feet; he paused, slumping against the cold damp bricks and closed his eyes for a moment. It seemed to help a little. He stared up at the sky, at the cold grey clouds, the rain washing over his face and cooling his brow. His shirt clung like a clammy second skin to his ribs and arms, freezing where it touched. His feet felt numb with cold.

After a few moments, he lowered his head and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to wake himself up from the drowsy stupor that made his limbs feel like lead. He shook his head impatiently, dirty water spraying in fine droplets from his wet hair, but the movement only made him more dizzy. A shudder racked his body as the wind blew chill and icy through his soaked clothes, tracing frozen fingers across his body. He wrapped his long thin arms about himself and huddled against the wall, trying to keep warm, but he couldn't stop shivering.

_Got to keep moving._ He couldn't remember where or why any more, just that he had to keep going. He was trying to find... what? Something. No, some_one_.

_John. Got to find John._

Pushing himself away from the wall, he began stumbling on again, the cobblestones hard and unyielding, bruising his bare feet though he could hardly feel it now. He emerged from the alley, blinking in confusion as he stared around at the traffic. Despite the downpour, the road was busy with carts, carriages, horses; here and there the odd bicycle. Hansoms racing past, their high wheels throwing up mud, the horse's flanks streaming with rain and steaming with exertion as they threw up their heads with a fierce whinny. Shouts and yells from the street traders packing up their stalls at close of business competed with the calls from the paper vendors, the evening broadsheets speckling with rain as they changed hands, newspaperman to customer, the jangle of falling silver coins in outstretched palms drowned out by the patter of heavy rain beating on hard pavements. A cacophony of sound that drowned out all rational thought until all that was left was unthinking existence, staggering along the pavement, jostled by people with more sense of direction than he.

A hard collision with some unseen person's shoulder sent him sprawling into the road; a passing brougham sprayed him with dirt and muddy water. Rolling to the curb he coughed and spluttered, now filthy with foul-smelling water as well as drenched to the skin. Standing up, he reeled and would have fallen but for the press of people which facelessly buffeted him on all sides, jostling him along until the river of people spat him out by the side of a bridge; he stumbled down the steps, grateful for the brief respite from the chaos of the evening rush. The silent stretch of water beside the tow-path seemed a world away from the madness above, and the bridge afforded sanctuary from the merciless driving rain. He sank to his knees in the darkness, then rolled over onto his side, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He was chilled to the bone and so, so tired.

He couldn't stop shivering. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. It was no good; he couldn't sleep here, or he should surely never wake again. He had no idea where he was; thought came slowly to him, struggling through a blackness thicker than treacle which threatened to overwhelm him if he closed his eyes for too long. It was easier not to think. A painful shudder racked his body, and he coughed hoarsely. _Mustn't stay here. Got to keep going._ Wearily he rolled over onto his hands and knees and began to crawl along the tow-path, the ground gritty and rough beneath his hands and knees. He whimpered a little as the howling wind funnelled its way through the tunnel, freezing him. _So, so cold._ He slumped to the ground, resting his face against the cold hard ground. The thought of trying to move again made him weep, yet after a few minutes he forced himself slowly to his feet, wiping the gritty dirt from his cheek with his wet sleeve. He was unaware of the muddy smear it left there; or perhaps uncaring. With one hand to help support him, pressed against the brickwork of the bridge, he staggered on into the evening, following the canal. When he ran out of tunnel wall, he wrapped his arms about his thin chest, tucking his slender, dirty hands under his armpits for warmth. Head bowed against the downpour, he stumbled on, footsteps halting and uncertain.

One foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Keep going. Never mind where; he had no idea where he was or where he was going, only that it was important to keep going. The world pitched crazily around him, the ground swaying like the deck of a ship in a storm – or maybe he was the one swaying. He was dizzy; cold and yet burning up with heat inside. In between shivers his body was racked with bouts of coughing. _Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. _It was like a mantra playing in his head; he clung to the thought like a drowning man clinging to a rope.

The cobblestones gave way to sooth-edged paving blocks; the canal widened. He paused, staring about himself in the gloom. Lock gates, their balance beams painted white, drew his attention. He staggered closer to stand by a mooring bollard, staring down into the water. His gaze was drawn along the canal, over the lock gates themselves, to the lock chamber. After a moment he stumbled on a few more steps, until he stood by the edge of the canal itself, staring down into the lock chamber.

The water was inky and black in the faint moonlight that broke through rapidly scudding clouds, the surface dappled with raindrops which were falling lighter now. He stared down into the water, his face expressionless. Something about the water seemed almost hypnotic, enticing him closer. He swayed, then fell to his knees, unable to drag his gaze away.

_No... no..._

He pulled himself upright and swayed, kneeling upon the very brink of the water's edge as the black waters lapped at the stone inches below him. How easy it would be to just give up, surrender his body to the inky darkness, let those cold waters close over and swallow him. He stared around himself despairingly. _No... not like this..._

He closed his eyes. He felt so ill and cold; though chilled to his bones, he was sweating, and breathing was painful. "Where are you, John?" he murmured between coughs.

The wind shrilled around him; it almost sounded like voices, mocking him. Staggering to his feet he stared around himself wildly – was that – did someone shout his name?

No. Only the wind. No-one to hear him or care. Where was John? He didn't know. He thought he had been trying to find him but all he had found was the nightmare once more.

"You promised no dreams, John," he murmured brokenly. "You promised..." He covered his face with his hands and wept, lost, his tears mingling with the rain.

And then the world pitched suddenly at an odd angle; he was falling, the world blurring into a grey haze as his legs gave way and the water rushed up to meet him. He was sinking in a world of liquid night and cold, so very cold, as the waters closed over his face.

He closed his eyes and breathed out helplessly; and then he knew no more.


	9. Chapter 9

"You two - Roberts, Cole, you take the Stables. You four, split up and take the Lower Market; Smith, Clark, with me!" Lestrade strode towards Watson, the two constables flanking him as the others made their way in their designated directions. Watson waited impatiently, rainwater streaming off the cape of his ulster and darkening the wool felt of his hat. He rapped his cane sharply against the cobblestones and then turned and strode off, trusting the police to follow.

In three easy paces, Lestrade was walking beside him, his face a match for the doctor's in gravity and impatience. "I can't say as it bodes too well for Mr Holmes in filthy weather like this, Dr Watson," he observed dourly.

"Then don't," snapped Watson tersely.  
Lestrade grunted. "Well, we'll worry about the state of him if-"  
"_When_ we find him," Watson corrected fiercely, stopping suddenly and gripping Lestrade by the arm. "_When_, Inspector. We _will_ find him, if I have to comb this entire city street by street by myself, with or without you. Do I make myself clear?" His face was scant inches from that of the small rat-like man, and Lestrade almost recoiled from the intensity of the blazing anger in those fierce blue eyes. Watson held him for a moment longer until he saw an answering understanding in Lestrade's hazel eyes in the brief moment before the inspector dropped his gaze, as a subordinate dog will do when cowed. "Ay, well, we'd best be about it then," he muttered. Watson dropped his arm and turned away, striding rapidly despite the limp which always worsened in cold, wet weather such as this.

Clark and Smith had silently moved on ahead a little way whilst this exchange was going on, and as Watson broke away towards them, Clark turned his face away respectfully and stepped to one side to give the angry doctor space. As he did so, he happened to glance over the low wall by the side of the road, down at the canal below. Suddenly he froze as he thought he saw something in the water; something pale...

With a sudden yell, Clark vaulted over the wall down to the canalside. Tossing his hat and coat aside, he jumped into the canal and struck out for the still floating body.

"Gor blimey, he's spotted something sir!" yelled Smith,raising his lantern and holding it out over the side of the bridge. Watson sprang to his side and looked down as Clark turned over the body, supporting it carefully as he lifted the pale face clear of the water.

"_HOLMES!_" screamed Watson, his face draining of all colour. Frantically he dashed for the steps down to the lock as Lestrade followed, blowing hard on his whistle. Clark was swimming back towards the edge of the canal, carefully cradling the body of the detective against his chest, Holmes' head resting on the constable's shoulder. Lestrade and Watson dropped to their knees on the hard stones at the water's edge, reaching out to help lift Holmes' body out of the water. Lestrade gave Clark his arm as the soaked constable scrambled out after, whilst Watson threw himself across Holmes' still form, anxiously checking him for signs of life.

"He's a goner," groaned Lestrade, observing the stillness of Holmes' ribs and the blue-grey pallor of his face.

"No, no, I felt a pulse as I held him," denied Clark. "He's going to make it, isn't he, doctor? ... Doctor?" asked Clark hesitantly.

Watson merely hissed and waved him into silence, all his attention upon Holmes. Carefully he pressed two fingers against his throat,holding his breath until he felt the thready flutter of a weak pulse. He exhaled with relief. "Clark, give me a hand rolling him over," he ordered. Together they rolled Holmes over onto his stomach, then Watson stripped off his heavy ulster and moved to kneel straddling Holmes' hips. Sliding his arms around Holmes' chest and hauling him slightly upright, Watson placed his hands so that one fist covered the other, linked just below the stomach then squeezed in and pulled up. Holmes' head jerked briefly with the movement, his head lolling to one side as a quantity of dirty canal water was forced out of his mouth. Watson repeated the motion again, a third time, a fourth - until a strange gurgling noise came from Holmes' mouth and then with a gasp he began to vomit, throwing up a mixture of bile and water until finally he sagged, gasping, in Watson's arms. Watson swung his leg back over to kneel at Holmes' side, turning him so he was cradled in the doctor's arms. His eyelids fluttered and he moaned faintly as Watson softly called his name. Lestrade picked up Watson's ulster and helped him wrap it around the half-conscious man, whose skin was like ice to the touch.

Smith came clattering down the steps, followed by Roberts and Coles, who had heard Lestrade's whistle and come at its summons, pausing only to fetch the stretcher and blankets from the mariah waiting on the street a short distance away. They carefully loaded Holmes onto the stretcher then began to carry him back up to the street, Watson and Lestrade following up behind. Clark brought up the rear, grateful for the dry blanket Smith slung about his shoulders.

Watson knelt by Holmes' side all the way back to Baker Street, Holmes' thin white hand cradled in Watson's warm brown grip; his eyes did not leave his friend's dreadfully pale visage the entire way, sparing not a glance even when the mariah paused for the other four officers to board. He was oblivious to the hushed, concerned voices of Lestrade, Clark and the others around him. All his attention was focused on Holmes; the harsh, laboured sound of his breathing, the occasional faint moans and murmurings that escaped those pale lips which had not lost their bluish tint, the slight fluttering of his eyelids, the sweat now beading on his brow. The journey back to Baker Street had never seemed so long before. He restrained the impulse to scream that they should drive faster, make more haste; he could hear the iron-shod hooves of the horses pounding as fast as his heart was racing and to demand more of them would be inhuman, but still... _Oh God, hurry. Please hurry. Let us not be too late. Please, Holmes, stay with me._

He had not realised he had spoken aloud until Lestrade laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Opposite Lestrade, on the other side of Holmes, Clark nodded at the doctor. "He'll make it, doctor," he said with an assurance born of confidence in Watson. "You'll pull him through."

Watson stared down at Holmes' unconscious face. He barely dared to hope. Bringing Holmes' hand to his lips, he bent over it, brushing the cold fingers with a soft kiss, unheeding of the pitying glances of the bobbies. "I have to," he said quietly. He gently brushed strands of wet hair away from his friend's forehead, and felt the unnatural heat burning from within. He shook his head. "You're going to live," he told the unconscious man. "You have to. I won't let you die."


	10. Chapter 10

They brought Holmes slowly, carefully up the seventeen steps, the police officers bearing their burden as though it were the most precious thing on earth. Clark had pushed on ahead of them to alert Mrs Hudson, and as Watson followed the bier up the stairs, around the hall and into the rooms he shared with his friend, Mrs Hudson came bustling after, bearing an armful of towels whilst Clark followed behind, wrapped in a large fluffy bathsheet the redoubtable landlady had forced upon him.

"Clark, you're soaked too, you need to get out of those wet things before you catch your death, man," observed Watson, following Mrs Hudson. Without looking to see Clark's response, the doctor took a towel from Mrs Hudson as the bobbies set their burden down gently upon the floor.

"Let's get him out of those clothes," ordered Watson as he shed his coat and jacket before rolling his sleeves up. "Mrs Hudson, a warm bath please – warm, not hot! And then hot water bottles and blankets."

She nodded without word and bustled into the bathroom to begin running the bath whilst Watson started stripping the soaked clothing fro the chilled body of his friend with the assistance of Lestrade. Holmes did not stir during their ministrations, his limbs limp and pliant, his breathing still laboured and uneven. Watson draped the towel over Holmes' hips to preserve his friend's dignity as Smith and Lestrade carefully hoisted the unconscious man between them and bore him into the bathroom. Watson checked the water with his elbow much as a mother might check the bathwater before bathing her infant; he glanced up and nodded his approval to Mrs Hudson who smiled briefly in acknowledge before departing to fetch the hotwater bottles and blankets, shooing Clark ahead of her. "Off to the kitchen with you!" she ordered "I've a good pot of broth on the stove that will warm you up, Officer."

Lestrade grunted with amusement at the sight of his officer being chastised by the woman, then helped Smith to slowly lower Holmes into the bath, Watson reaching up to cradle his friend's head with his hands to help keep it above the water.

Holmes jerked slightly as his body sank into the water and his eyes flickered open as he cried out wordlessly in pain. Watson shifted around so that he was now supporting Holmes' head in the crook of his elbow whilst the other hand caught a slim, flailing white hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"Is the water too hot?" asked Lestrade anxiously. Watson shook his head.

"It's just below blood temperature," he replied. "His body is so chilled though that it feels scalding." He turned and glanced up at the inspector. "Lestrade, I owe you an apology. My behaviour earlier-"

"Quite alright, Doctor; no apology needed," replied Lestrade, patting his shoulder awkwardly. "You were concerned for Mr Holmes."

"Thank you, Lestrade," Watson said quietly. "For all you've done for him."

"All in a day's work, Dr Watson," said Lestrade, straightening himself up "Speaking of which, I have to get the lads back to the station and call back Hopkins and Gregson. Will you need any further help, Doctor?"

Watson shook his head. "I should be able to manage now with Mrs Hudson's help," he replied.

Lestrade nodded. "In which case, we'll be on our way. I'll leave Clarky with you for now. Best of luck to you, Doctor, and I hope Mr Holmes recovers with no further incident."

"Thank you, Inspector, Constable," replied Watson, nodding to Smith as the officer touched the brim of his hat briefly in salute.

And then they left, the door closed, and there was silence save for Holmes' ragged breathing and the faint lapping of water in the bath. Holmes had stilled again, eyes closed, lips parted as he laboured for breath. Tenderly Watson took up a flannel, wetting it in the warm water before steadily washing all traces of dirt from the white face, the delicate hands, the bruised and cut feet. Then gently he washed canal filth and traces of water weed out of the coal-black hair before sitting back on his heels and staring down into his friend's face. Softly he called Holmes' name, stroking his fingers across his brow and trailing them down the side of his face. Holmes' brow creased slightly in a faint frown, but his eyes did not open. The skin beneath Watson's hand was cool, but no longer held the deathly chill of before.

There was a slight tap upon the bathroom door and Mrs Hudson cleared her throat slightly. "I've put the hot water bottles in his bed, Dr Watson, and I've brought more blankets. How is he?"

"Better, I think," replied Watson, glancing round. "I think we can safely get him out of the bath and into bed now, if you would call Constable Clark to assist?"

"He's fallen asleep in the kitchen in front of the fire," she replied briskly. "I thought it best to leave him to it. How may I assist?"

"We need to get him out of the bath and dried off quickly," replied Watson, moving around the bath to slip both arms under Holmes' shoulders, lifting him up slightly; Holmes' head lolled back to rest upon the edge of the bath, his face turned a little to one side. Mrs Hudson laid a pair of large bathsheets upon the floor, one on top of the other to make a double layer, then moved to the foot of the bath. Rolling her sleeves up to her elbows, she reached down into the water to gather up Holmes' legs at the knees. On a count of three, they scooped him up out of the water and laid him down upon the towels. Briskly they rubbed him down with clean dry towels before wrapping him up warmly in the bathsheets.

Then Watson gathered his friend's thin body up into his arms, inwardly marvelling at how light and frail he felt. Holmes' head rested damply upon his shoulder as he carried him into his bedroom, Mrs Hudson bustling behind. Watson waited whilst Mrs Hudson pulled back the covers and rearranged the hot water bottles. Between them, they managed to dress him in a warm flannel nightshirt, and then Watson laid him carefully in the bed with hot water bottles tucked in under his armpits, over his hips and under his knees before tucking him in and wrapping extra blankets around him.

Throughout all of this, Holmes stirred little; his breathing grew a little quieter, but although his eyelids flickered briefly his eyes did not open, even when Watson bent over hi and laid a hand over his forehead.

"Will that be all Dr Watson?" asked Mrs Hudson quietly. "Shall I bring you some broth?"

"Please," nodded Watson, not taking his eyes from his friend's still form. Mrs Hudson nodded silently; gathering up discarded towels, she quietly left the room.

Drawing a chair over to the bedside, Watson dropped down into the seat with a small sigh. Gently he drew Holmes' limp hand out from under the eiderdown and cradled in both of his warm, careworn hands. With a sigh, he rested his forearms on the edge of the bed, and lowered his head to rest his forehead against them.

Adrenaline and fear had kept him going up until now, but finally Holmes was home and safe; and all at once Watson could feel the energy draining from him, leaving a drained feeling of a body and soul-deep exhaustion. Closing his eyes, he allowed sleep to claim him.

A short while later, Mrs Hudson returned bearing a bowl of steaming broth. She paused in the doorway to regard the two unconscious men; the one lying still and insensate against the pillows, his face almost as white as the soft cotton sheets, the other slumped forward, his head pillowed upon his arms, his hand still holding Holmes'. She carefully placed the tray on a nearby table, then slipped silently into the room to tuck a blanket gently around the sleeping doctor's shoulders. Then picking up the tray once more, she drew the door closed behind her, leaving the two men to sleep in peace.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a twitch of the hand held within his that brought Watson back to wakefulness. His eyes opened and he let his gaze travel slowly up the bed to Holmes' face. The hand twitched again, and Watson sat up.

Holmes turned his head restlessly, his eyes half-open; he licked his lips briefly, then shifted slightly in the bed. His breathing was shallow and rasping; his forehead was beaded with sweat.

"Holmes?" said Watson quietly, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed, squeezing Holmes' hand reassuringly.

"Where am I?" slurred Holmes, turning towards the sound of Watson's voice. He opened his eyes a little wider; they looked glassy and he seemed to be having problems focusing on the doctor's face.

"You're at home, in your own bed. You're safe now," answered Watson gently. "Do you remember what happened?"

Holmes shook his head and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. "Just the same nightmare again, or worse." He stared accusingly up at Watson. "You said you would give me something to _stop_ the dreams, John! But they were worse than before; I dreamed you left me... I tried to find you, but... oh god, I was so cold, you cannot imagine it, John. So cold I thought I should die, and then I was drowning..."

"You _did_ drown, old boy," said Watson sombrely. "It wasn't a dream."

"Don't be ridiculous, Watson, I couldn't-" He broke off suddenly as he was racked by a fit of coughing until he was gasping for breath. "Oh dear God, I am roasting under this quilt," he complained petulantly, when he could speak again, pushing the eiderdown aside. He fought weakly with Watson as the doctor tried to cover him again. "What are you doing? I tell you, I am boiling alive under here, man!" he protested querulously.

"Holmes, you went sleep-walking in just your shirtsleeves. You fell in the canal. Constable Clark and I pulled you out, but you weren't breathing. You were near drowned dead and chilled through. You had a very severe case of hypothermia." Watson pulled the eiderdown straight and tucked it back in. Holmes stared up at him, eyes full of confusion.

"But- I thought-" He slumped back against the pillows and raked his hands through his hair then pressed them to his temples, closing his eyes. "I can't think straight; nothing makes any sense," he murmured. "My head is pounding..."

Watson leaned over and laid his hand upon Holmes' forehead. Holmes eyed him and raised an eyebrow. "Well?" he muttered.

"You're running a temperature," replied Watson. "Not entirely unexpected after several hours running around barefoot with no coat in the freeing cold rain."

"That would explain why my feet hurt," murmured Holmes. He pushed weakly at the eiderdown again. "So hot..."

"Holmes..." growled Watson warningly but Holmes rolled his head on the pillow with a groan, eyes half-lidded as his hands clenched spasmodically on the edge of the quilt, twisting the fabric between his fingers. "Holmes?"

"So thirsty... tired..." he slurred, shivering slightly as a drop of perspiration slowly trickled down the side of his face. Watson reached for the carafe of water on the bedside table, pouring a small glass. Sliding his arm around the sick man's shoulders, he eased him up and put the glass to his lips. Holmes drank eagerly, gulping the water, unheeding of the small amount that spilled down his chin. His head dropped back to lean upon Watson's arm as his eyes closed and he groaned faintly. One hand plucked listlessly at the quilt whilst the other pawed aimlessly at the air before dropping to his side. He shivered again.

Watson set the empty glass down then shifted over slightly until his back was against the headboard of the narrow bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He gently took Holmes in his arms, cradling his head against his shoulder. Holmes turned his head slightly so he could nuzzle his face against the doctor's neck. His body felt hot; Watson frowned slightly. "You're burning up," he said quietly. His only answer was a faint moan.

"Holmes?"

"The old man, he knows... he knows..."

"Holmes? What old man – what does he know?" Watson turned slightly, confused. Holmes shook his head.

"He knows... ask him about the dog..."

Watson straightened up and stared down at Holmes, who tossed his head listlessly. "Holmes, you're not making any sense," he said uncertainly.

Holmes threw himself upright, suddenly opening his eyes wide as he thrust himself away from the doctor. "You don't understand, we have to find her!" His eyes glittered with a feverish brightness. Watson slid from the bed to catch Holmes by the shoulders, staring into his face.

"Holmes, you're sick. You're babbling. You're not making any sense!"

"Damn you, man, you're no use – I tell you, the old man _knows, _we have to- we have to-" He suddenly slumped, eyes rolling back in his head. Watson gently lowered him back down onto the bed, smoothing the wild black hair back off the sweating forehead. Holmes murmured something incoherent and his eyelids fluttered. His hands briefly clutched at the quilt once more, then fell limp as his head rolled to one side.

Watson carefully checked Holmes' breathing and pulse; his respiration was shallow and rapid, the pulse jumping steadily against his fingers as he held them to Holmes' neck. He sighed then straightened up slowly, staring down at the unconscious detective.

"How is he?" asked Mrs Hudson from the doorway. Watson glanced round at her, sighed again, and shook his head.

"Fever," he answered quietly as he moved away from the bed to join her by the door. She held out a tea tray and he smiled his thanks as she inclined her head towards the sitting room. She set the tray down on the small table between his chair and the settee, and with a stifled groan Watson lowered himself stiffly into his chair, his bad leg twingeing.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked him. Watson shook his head as he reached for the teapot.

"Sleep is the best thing for him just now," he answered, pouring a cup of tea. "Is Clarky still here?"

"I sent him along home a good two hours ago," she replied. "The poor man was all done in despite the nap he had. He needed a good rest in his own bed, and I dare say you do too, Doctor."

He waved his hand tiredly. "I slept earlier," he said dismissively.

"Yes, I saw," she said with a sniff. "In the chair, and bent over at such an angle that I dare say did your shoulder no good, if I may say so."

Watson rubbed thoughtfully at the old war wound in his shoulder; there was some truth in what Mrs Hudson said. He sipped at his tea then tilted his head in acknowledgement of her point.

"Go on, off with you," said Mrs Hudson decisively. "Go get some decent sleep in your own bed. I can watch him as well as you could, and you will be the better for the rest."

"I shouldn't; if he should wake and find me gone-"

"-I will come and fetch you directly," she finished for him. He eyed her shrewdly and raised an eyebrow. "Nanny knows best, eh?" he grinned suddenly.

"Oh be off with you now; do you not think I get enough of that rubbish from Mr Holmes?" she snapped, swatting at him with her apron. But there was a dancing gleam of amusement in her brown eyes as she harried him up and towards the stairs.

Watson laughed and pretended to be duly afraid of her mock swipes as he ducked away, hands raised in surrender. "Very well, very well! I shall go to bed," he conceded. "But call me at once the moment he stirs."

"I shall," she promised.

Watson paused to dart a quick look in to check on the sleeping Holmes; then with a final nod of thanks he made his way upstairs to his own room. He sprawled upon his bed, not bothering to undress; he was asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow.


	12. Chapter 12

Mrs Hudson bustled around the room quietly, tidying up here and there, building up the fire, straightening up the pile of papers that threatened to avalanche off the desk into the path of the remains of her tenant's last failed chemistry experiment (at least, she _presumed_ it had failed; sometimes it was honestly hard to tell, but this one at least hadn't set the drapes on fire like the previous occasion) and retrieving cups of what might once have been tea but now were anyone's guess and a couple of dishes that bore the fossilised remains of meals from months ago. She'd wondered where that soup tureen had gone to, she reflected, as she peered in at the strange fungal growth that now sprouted within. Sighing, she shook her head and added it to the growing assortment of stray crockery and silverware on the tray.

Dr Watson had dropped the small pouch of rough shag on the top of the writing bureau; she picked it up and carefully decanted it into the toe of the Persian slipper where Mr Holmes would find it when he was ready for his pipe again. The Stradivarius she reverently replaced in its worn leather case together with the bow.

Gathering up the tray, she carried it down to the kitchen before returning to the room with her duster. She began to set about the room with a will.

She nearly leapt out of her skin when there was a loud shriek of sheer horror from the bedroom doorway directly behind her. She spun round, her hand flying to clutch at her heart as she dropped the duster. Mr Holmes was standing there, clutching at the doorframe for support, an awful expression upon his face as he stared at her, aghast. Clutching at his wild hair with one hand briefly, he then gesticulated wildly at the room.

"This- you- this is- _what are you doing?_" he howled frantically.

"I thought that was obvious, Mr Holmes; I am tidying your rooms!" She waggled a finger sternly at him. "And _you_ should still be abed!"

Thrusting himself away from the doorframe, he staggered over to the settee, clutching the back for support. "It was all in _order!_" he wailed, gesturing at the neat, tidy piles of paperwork and letters. "I knew _precisely_ where everything was!" With an agonised groan of despair, he sank down to sit upon the floor. "Months of work... all my careful organisation, ruined, absolutely _ruined_ I tell you," he moaned, and clutched his head with something very like a sob.

The sound of footsteps drumming down the stairs heralded Watson's approach; the doctor rushed into the roo eyes still bleary with sleep. "I heard Holmes scream – is he alright? What's happened?"

Mrs Hudson shrugged and rolled her eyes in exasperation as Holmes' voice drifted out from behind the settee, muffled slightly. "She _tidied_ all my _papers!_" he moaned in a broken voice. "_All_ of them!"

Watson sighed with relief. "Is that all, old boy? I thought there was something seriously the matter with you from the way you yelled." He ran a hand through his short, sandy hair, snorting through his moustache as he exchanged meaningful looks with Mrs Hudson.

"I'll go put the kettle on," she said, bustling off.

Watson nodded as she left, then glanced over at the settee. "How are you feeling, old chap?" he asked, limping over towards Holmes' hiding place. The only answer was a faint moan. Watson knelt on the settee and peered over the back down at Holmes.

Holmes lay on his back, one arm thrown up to cover his eyes. He did not move as Watson stared down at him.

"Holmes? What are you doing?" asked the doctor. Holmes groaned again.

"Dying," he replied, not looking up at Watson, who scoffed.

"Oh come _on_ now, Holmes, you are _not_ dying!" he said scornfully. "You've just got a bit of a chill is all. Come on, get up."

"I can't," said Holmes quietly but distinctly. "I feel very dizzy and the room won't stop spinning."

Watson sighed and came around the settee to sit on the floor crosslegged next to Holmes ignoring the painful twinge from his stiff leg. Holmes lowered his arm to glance up at him. His soft grey eyes were still glassy with fever, and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Watson shook his head at Holmes then carefully brushed the damp hair out of his eyes before gently laying his hand on Holmes' forehead. Holmes lay still, watching Watson dully. "You shouldn't be out of bed," said Watson quietly. "You're still very ill, Holmes."

"My papers," said Holmes helplessly. Watson nodded understanding.

"I know old cock," he said kindly, patting Holmes' hand. "You leave Mrs Hudson to me. Let's get you back to bed shall we?"

Holmes frowned and shook his head. "I'd rather stay here," he said listlessly.

"You can't stay on the floor, Holmes!" objected Watson. A look of irritation flared in the grey eyes.

"In this _room_," he corrected. "I can't abide being shut up in there. I want to stay here, where..." his voice trailed off into a tired sigh, but Watson understood what he didn't say; _here where I am surrounded by my things, where I can keep an eye on my papers, where I feel safe._

Watson levered himself up off the floor with a grunt, the muscles in his thigh complaining painfully as the old bullet wound pulled against the movement. He slid an arm under Holmes' shoulders. "Come on, old boy; up you come," he said encouragingly as he helped Holmes sit up.

"If I must, Mother Hen," replied Holmes but without any real rancour in his voice. He let himself be hauled upright then clutched the back of the settee for support, bowing his head for a moment whilst he waited for the room to stop spinning. Just the effort of standing upright had him breaking out in sweat again, and he didn't trust himself to move just yet.

"Holmes?" asked Watson quietly; Holmes held up a hand to forstall him.

"In a minute," he breathed softly. "Let me catch my breath."

Watson nodded and left him there for a moment whilst he fetched pillows and the eiderdown from Holmes' room. When he returned, Holmes had sunk back down to sit on the floor, slumped against the settee. He had closed his eyes again, and moaned in protest when Watson slid his hands beneath his arms and hauled him back upright again. Ignoring his half-hearted protests to be left alone where he was, Watson manouvered the sick man back around the settee and laid him down against the soft white pillows.

Even that little exertion left Holmes panting and out of breath, sweat beading his brow and rolling down the side of his face. Privately, Watson thought his friend looked thoroughly ghastly, his face the colour of whey, and his eyes were feverish and unfocused. He perched on the edge of the settee and patted his shoulder. "You should try to sleep," he said.

Holmes glanced up at Watson from beneath half-closed eyelids. "So should you," he retorted without heat.

"Probably," replied Watson. "But I'm not going to until after you do."

Holmes grunted. "What if I don't?" he challenged grumpily.

"Holmes..." Watson frowned. Holmes sighed and threw up his hands in defeat.

"Alright Mother Hen, have your way," he muttered, turning his back on the doctor.

"Holmes?" said Watson quietly after a few minutes but there was no answer. Watson sighed thankfully.

It was only then that he realised he had not asked Holmes what he had meant earlier about the old man, the dog, and the strange mention of "her". There was only one "her" that sprang to mind; one woman – the one Holmes ever referred to as "_the_ woman".

What had Irene Adler to do with all this? Was it just the babblings of a man in the grip of fever, or was there something more here?


	13. Chapter 13

"_You don't understand, we have to find her!_"

Holmes' words rang still in Watson's mind. _We have to find her._ Not an easy task at the best of times; Irene Adler was a past mistress of not being found unless she wanted to. She breezed into your life; you didn't invite her, and you had very little say in how or when she would do so, or leave in much the same way. She'd outwitted Holmes on more than one occasion – three times now, by Watson's count – and if she were a challenge for the detective, what chance did Dr John Watson MD have?

And yet he had to try.

He glanced over at Holmes, who lay curled up on his side on the settee. One hand was tucked up close to his chest, whilst the other hung limply down, fingers dangling a little way above the floor. His head was thrown back, lips slightly parted. He had been a little restless earlier, tossing his head feverishly in his sleep and occasionally frowning, but otherwise there had been no sign of a recurrence of the nightmare, for which Watson was grateful. Holmes needed all the uninterrupted sleep he could get right now.

Watson sighed and turned back to the folder that lay open on the desk in front of him. Though none of the newspaper clippings spread out before him referred to Adler directly by name, Holmes had collated them all with single-minded dedication, recognising her actions in the reports of all the jewel thefts and heists and the patterns of her handiwork. Watson had all the latest London newspapers spread out on the floor beside him on the floor, and he had been steadily working through the file and trying to pick up any discernible matching pattern in recent news reports since the _Cessarine Majeste_ case. He thought he had a couple of likely matches, but it had taken him several hours to do so – certain that Holmes would have glanced over those selfsame papers and observed the same identifying clues in mere minutes. Not for the first time did he envy Holmes his quicksilver wits and observational skills; he felt so much his clumsy inferior.

But still, he had a couple of leads to try now. He picked up the evening papers provided so thoughtfully by Mrs Hudson earlier that evening, and went back again to the two articles about mysterious jewel thefts at a recent society ball, tapping his chin thoughtfully. There was another such event scheduled for this evening, on the occasion of a special violin recital by August Wilhelmj. The soloist and composer was one that Watson knew Holmes was fond of, and he felt a pang of guilt at attending without him - but Holmes was in no fit state to go anywhere.

There could be no harm in attending and keeping a weather eye out, he felt.

Mrs Hudson knocked at the door and entered as he stood in front of the fire,straightening his bow tie in front of the mirror. She took in his formal dress attire and raised an eyebrow. "You're going out this evening, Doctor?" she said in some surprise.

"There is someone I need to see," he replied quietly. "It is a matter of some urgency."

"But - Mr Holmes -"

He glanced round at the sleeping man, who sprawled in unconscious abandon upon the settee. "I think it unlikely he should awaken; but if he should, tell him I will only be gone a few hours at most."

"I see," said Mrs Hudson, in tones that made it plain she didn't see at all but was unwilling to press the matter further. Watson's face pulled into an apologetic little mou, but he said nothing further.

"Shall I call you a cab then, Doctor?" she said a little stiffly.  
"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs Hudson," replied Watson as he donned his gloves and pulled on his silk topper.  
"Will that be all, sir?" she asked.  
"Would you mind keeping an ear out for Holmes in case he should waken?" replied Watson as he made his way towards the door.  
"But of course, Doctor," she sniffed, then with a backwards glance made her way down to the street to hail a cab.

Watson knelt briefly by the settee and brushed a gloved hand briefly over Holmes' shoulder. "I'll be back as soon as I can, old chap," he told the sleeping man quietly, before rising and leaving. Holmes didn't stir; he hadn't really expected him to. Still, he felt a little pang of guilt leaving him like this, even though he knew full well that were their situations reversed, Holmes would likely have departed without a second thought or a backwards glance. He sighed, straightened his topper, and headed for the door, picking up his cane as he went.

It felt very strange to be attending a concert without Holmes. He missed his company more than he had realised he would; the room felt strangely empty despite the full audience who sat enthralled through the recital. Watson sat very still, attempting to at least give the appearance of being an attentive listener whilst he scanned the audience around him.

He had no way of being certain Adler was even here; and if she were, she was as much a master of disguise as Holmes, so there was no guarantee he would spot her anyway. Still, he had to at least try.

As the recital drew to a close, Watson rose to his feet with the others around him and glanced around as he applauded, hoping to spot a familiar face, but in vain. As people began filing out of their chairs to drift towards the refreshments, he sighed and inwardly chafed at the wasted evening.

"What a surprise to see you here, and alone too, Doctor!" purred a low, feminine contralto voice just behind his left ear. He span round on his heel and stared down into the dancing green eyes of Irene Adler.

"I knew you'd be here," he blurted out. Taking her elbow, he turned and guided her a little way away from the crowd.

"Why Dr Watson, I didn't know you cared," she said coyly, fluttering her eyelashes at him flirtatiously. Watson felt the colour rising to his cheeks in spite of himself.

"Don't flatter yourself, Miss Adler," he said stiffly. "I'm not here for your sake; this isn't a social visit."

"It isn't? Oh darn," she sighed, fluttering her fan briefly. "Well in that case, much as I'd love to stay and chat, I must be on my way; do give my best to Sherlock. Where _is_ he, anyway? You two are usually joined at the hip..." She looked around her with a shrewd look in her eyes.

Taking a firmer hold on her arm, Watson pulled her closer. "What are you up to, Irene?" he hissed. She blinked at him in surprise. He tilted his head and glared at her in warning, but her eyes held only puzzlement. She shook her head slowly. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"You mean you don't know anything about the _Cessarine Majeste_? Or the attempt on Holmes' life?"

"Well, I do now," she remarked dryly. "I've never heard of the _Cessarine Majeste_ though."

He stared down at her; he couldn't be certain, but he didn't think she was lying to him. Her surprise seemed genuine. He blew through his moustache with a small noise of frustration and let his gaze roam the room. He'd found Adler but was still no closer to solving this strange conundrum.

"Where are you staying?" he asked quietly.

"The Grand, as usual," she replied. He nodded.

"I think perhaps you ought to come with me. To see Holmes. I'll explain on the way..."


	14. Chapter 14

The ride back to Baker Street was not a long one; Irene was silent during our journey, her expression thoughtful as she glanced out at the streets. Watson found that watching her silently was a little like watching Holmes; both had the same enigmatic air about them, their thoughts veiled. Watson was never entirely sure what to make of Miss Irene Adler; she was not like any other woman he'd ever known – and he'd known quite a few in his time. She was not an opponent to be underestimated – nor an ally to necessarily be fully trusted either. He was still uncertain how much she sincerely did not know about the _Cessarine Majeste_ and how much was clever dissembling upon her part; she did genuinely seem to care for Holmes in her own way though, so he thought it worth the risk to bring her to him.

They could hear raised voices shouting at each other as they dismounted from the hansom, and exchanged glances. Watson opened the door and gestured for Irene to precede him.

"Where _is he?_"  
"I tell you, Mr Holmes, I _do not know__!_ Now put that down – _Mr Holmes!_"  
"Take your hands off me – let me go – no-"

There was a loud crash and a cry, and then Holmes staggered out of the sitting room, eyes wild in distress as he continued to try and free himself from Mrs Hudson who was clinging on determinedly to his arm. He clung to the banister at the top of the stairs and would have fallen had she not had such a firm grip upon him. He sank to his knees and then spotted Watson and Irene, who was regarding him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. He knelt there at the edge of the topmost step, staring down at them both. He looked from Watson to Irene, confusion in his clouded grey eyes, then switched his attention back to Watson. "Was it a good concert?" he asked quietly, his voice remarkably changed and calm in comparison to the shrieking that had gone before.

Watson glanced at Irene, then took of his hat and began peeling off his gloves as he slowly mounted the stairs. "It would have been far better with you there, old chap," he said steadily, slowing as he reached the top few steps and pausing so his sombre blue eyes were on a level with Holmes' grey gaze. At such close quarters he was able to see the perspiration that dampened his forehead, and not for the first time wondered inwardly at the strength of willpower Holmes possessed to still be upright when by all rights he should still be a-bed. He was truly the most intractable and difficult patient Watson had ever had to treat, the doctor reflected ruefully.

Holmes managed one of his brief, lopsided smiles as his eyes slid sideways to Irene who stood just a step below Watson. "And to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?" he asked her.

"Ah,you'd have to ask Dr Watson here that particular question," she replied. "I'm here at his invitation."

Holmes stared back at Watson, the confusion returning to his eyes. "I don't understand," he frowned.

"You must be ill then," she quipped back. He turned and glared at her. She raised a hand placatingly. "Easy now, Sherlock. I'm here to help, not to fight."  
"That makes a change," he muttered, clutching tighter at the banister, lowering his head a little. Mrs Hudson hovered just behind him with an expression of worry, her hand still on his arm. Without really looking at her, he tried to shrug her off.  
"Perhaps we should continue this inside?" suggested Irene. "Unless you want us to all sit here on the stairs all night, Sherlock?"  
"Come on old chap," said Watson encouragingly, holding out his hand to Holmes. He stared at it for a moment, then with a small sigh of defeat he reached out and accepted Watson's support as he lurched back up onto his feet, swaying a little whilst Watson climbed the last few steps. Holmes leaned heavily on the doctor's shoulder as they made their way back into the sitting room, Irene following with Watson's hat and gloves which she handed to Mrs Hudson. The landlady sighed, shaking her head, and turned to put them away.

Once back inside, Holmes refused to return to the settee, instead pushing himself free of Watson's support and making his unsteady way over to his favourite chair beside the fire. He sat huddled there in his tatty dressing gown, glaring at Irene balefully as Watson glanced around, his gaze taking in an overturned table and broken crockery on the floor. Sighing inwardly, he gathered up the shards of china as best as he could and resolved to make it up to Mrs Hudson later; it was obvious that Holmes had not been the most peaceful of patients in his absence.

"Why did you bring _her_ here?" he asked Watson, not taking his eyes off her.  
"You said we needed to find her," Watson replied as he righted the table then dropped the broken tea cups into a wastepaper bin. Holmes turned with a start and stared at Watson.  
"I said that? When?"  
"When we got you back here after you nearly drowned," replied Watson, limping over to his own seat. "You babbled something about an old man and a dog, and yelled 'we have to find her'."  
"I did?" Holmes put a hand to his head. "I don't remember... And from that you somehow deduced I meant Irene and you _found_ her? Just like that?"

"Well, more like _I_ found _him_ - but I'm still impressed he knew where to look for me in the first place," remarked Irene, pushing the eiderdown to one side and settling herself on the settee as she divested herself of her hat and coat. "How _did_ you work that one out by the way, Doctor, if it wasn't Sherlock who sent you?"

"The jewel heists," replied Watson. Irene's eyes widened almost imperceptibly; Watson would have missed it if he hadn't been waiting for it. As it was, she recovered almost instantly, but Watson smiled inwardly that for once he'd been the one a step ahead of Adler. He glanced at Holmes and was rewarded with a small smile of approval; he'd caught it too.

"Go on," Holmes encouraged. "You used my file as a starting point?"

Watson nodded, basking a little in Holmes' pride in him. "I carefully checked the patterns then went through the evening papers until I found what seemed to be a likely match for Miss Adler's methods, and predicted she'd be likely to attend this evening's soirée."

"Well done, Watson, you're really coming on remarkably well," smiled Holmes - the first time Watson had seen him genuinely smile with warmth in weeks. Watson smiled in answer whilst Irene clapped slowly.  
"You've taught him well, Sherlock," she conceded. "That still doesn't explain why you were looking for me - or why you decided to take a swim in the canal."

The smile vanished from Holmes' face as he slumped back against his chair. He glanced towards the fire, his gaze abstracted. His fingers danced abstractly on the arm of the chair, and then he drew his bare feet up until he was sitting cross-legged in the chair.

"Holmes?" prompted Watson quietly.

Holmes straightened in the chair and turned to face Irene, steepling his fingers. "What do you know of the _Cessarine Majeste_?" he asked.

She shrugged, her face blank. "Never heard of it," she replied.

"Pity..." Holmes looked away again, then glanced at Watson, passing his head wearily across his forehead. "It did not occur to you that I was referring to the boat and not a person?"

Watson's face fell.


	15. Chapter 15

Irene broke the awkward silence with a peal of laughter.  
"You mean you went to all that trouble to find me - for a _boat_?" she giggled. "Oh Watson,if you could see your face right now!"  
Watson's face bore a stricken look as he glanced from Holmes to Irene and then back again.  
"I was trying to help," he said quietly.

Holmes waved a hand tiredly and closed his eyes. "It doesn't matter anymore," he said bleakly. "I'm in no fit state to find anything right now, assuming Nanny and Mother Hen here allow me to set foot beyond my own door." He gestured at Watson, not even looking at him as his voice dripped bitterness. He did not see Watson flinch in response to his reproach. Instead he lowered his head to rest upon his hand.

"You still haven't told me how Sherlock came to be taking a swim in the river, Doctor," remarked Irene, seeming to take an almost malicious delight in the doctor's discomfort.

"It was a _canal_, and I was not _swimming_," said Holmes, not raising his head. "The first time, I was pushed, and the second time I was drowning."

"Not very successfully then," remarked Irene, getting up with a rustle of satin skirts as she moved over to the drinks cabinet. "You look remarkably alive for a drowned man, Sherlock." She poured two glasses of whisky, and handed one to Watson and the other to Holmes who took it listlessly without looking at either it or her. She poured another for herself and knocked it back then grimaced. "This stuff is foul, Sherlock; where's the bourbon? At the very least you ought to have some decent wine around here. Even an '82 Merlot would be better than this."

Holmes straightened up at that and glared at her haughtily. "If I'd known you were coming I would have provided a more suitable welcome, Irene."

"I'm sure you would!" she laughed, and raised her nearly-empty glass to him. He set his own down untouched. With an effort he pushed himself to his feet and gestured archly towards the door.

"I'm glad I could provide you with some entertainment, my dear; don't let me detain you any longer, I'm sure you have more important things to be doing. You still have time to return to the ball and avail yourself of the opportunity to liberate Lady Rochester's jewels from her person - that _is_ why you were there, was it not?" He smiled politely at her, but his grey eyes were as hard as flint.

She raised her glass to him slowly in salute. "Touché, Sherlock. Now why don't you sit down before you fall down. Lady Rochester's jewels can wait till another night; I'm here now."

Holmes glared at her, swaying ever-so-slightly. "What do you want, Irene?" he said coldly.

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Dammit Sherlock, why do you have to always be so distrustful of me?"

"Would you like me to list the reasons?" he offered, raising an eyebrow. "Alphabetically or-"

"I know, I know, chronologically," she finished for him. "I know my past record doesn't exactly speak well for me here. But believe me, I do have my reasons for being here. And they're not as sinister as you seem to think. I dare say I don't want to see you floating face-down in a river-" Watson opened his mouth to correct her, but she waved her hands at him. "OK, OK, a _canal_. Whatever. I don't want to see that any more than Watson does. I can see there's something going on here, and if it's got Watson all riled up then it's something important."

Holmes stared at her. She stared back as though daring him to argue. Finally he threw his hands up in surrender; he fell rather than sat down in his chair again, slumping back against the cushioned back once more. Taking hold of the edges of his dressing gown, he clutched them closer about himself. He glanced over at Watson.

"Did you tell her about the dreams?" he asked him. Watson shook his head.  
"It didn't seem relevant..." he began. Holmes groaned and struck his forehead with the palm of his hand.  
"I have told you before that _nothing_ is too trivial, Watson - _nothing!_" He looked up with an expression akin to despair. "I cannot explain it, but I know that there is a link between the old man, the _Cessarine Majeste_, and my dreams if I could just fit these pieces together somehow..." He clenched his hand into a fist and pounded it onto the arm of the chair. "If only I could think straight!"

"Holmes, you're not a well man," replied Watson placatingly. "You're tired, overwrought-"  
"Damn you, man, stop bloody _patronising me!_" cried Holmes, lurching to his feet. Tearing off the dressing gown, he strode a trifle unsteadily towards his bedroom.

Irene and Watson exchanged glances. Setting her glass down, Irene moved towards the door to the hall and closed it, turning the key in the lock then dropping the key down the front of her dress.

"What are you-" began Watson but fell silent as she set a finger to her lips and made her way back to the settee. A moment later, Holmes re-emerged from his room, shod and dressed in a coat, his long grey muffler wrapped protectively about his neck and shoulders. He was pulling on his hat as he strode to the door; Irene and Watson watched silently as he laid his hand on the door handle and then wrenched it in vain.

He spun and pressed his back to the door, face white with fury and eyes flashing with fire. "Which of you did it?" he hissed. Irene rose to her feet and smiled sympathetically at him.

"It's for your own good, Sherlock," she said quietly. "He's right; how far do you think you'll get in that state?"

With a snarl, he flung himself upon her, grasping her by the shoulders. "Damn you, woman!" She stiffened, her green eyes narrowing. "Unhand me, Sherlock," she said very quietly. He stared at her silently, and then his eyes clouded over and all the fight seemed to go out of him at once. He let go of her and his hands dropped limply to his sides. He turned away from her, pulling the hat slowly from her head.

"Where were you going to go?" she asked softly.  
"Camden," he replied dully. "It's where we last saw the _Cessarine Majeste_. Where I was pushed in the canal. There must be something important there that I'm somehow missing; my mind's making connections but I don't see where all the pieces fit. I'm drawn back there, again and again." He stumbled over to the sideboard, pulling off the coat and dropping it on the floor as he went, though he kept on the scarf. He opened the violin case and lifted out the Stradivarius, stroking the delicate strings lovingly. Lifting it to his shoulder, he drew out the bow and set it to the strings then paused.

Then he lowered the bow and the violin, shaking his head. "I can't hear the music anymore," he whispered. "I can't make it sing. Not tonight." Laying the bow back in the case, he shuffled back towards his bedroom, the violin clutched to his chest. He paused at the door to look back at Irene.

"I can't make you leave," he said dully. "I never could. Stay or go as you please; it doesn't matter to me anymore." And with that he turned away into the darkness and sanctuary of his room, plucking an atonal slow arpeggio upon the Stradivarius as he went.

When Irene turned back towards the doctor, her eyes glimmered suspiciously bright, but she said nothing. After a moment she picked up her glass and refilled it again.

Watson picked up his own glass, and they drank in silence which this time remained unbroken.


	16. Chapter 16

Irene had taken her leave quietly shortly after the violin had fallen silent. It had been uncomfortable listening to that strange staccato sound, the plucking of the strings strident and unnerving, striking harsh atonal harmonics that reverberated uneasily in the otherwise silent room; the relief when finally the last note died away was a palpable presence in the room.

She had gathered up her hat and coat, perching her hat carefully atop her immaculately coiffed curls before Watson assisted her into the coat. He escorted her down to the street door, where she paused for a moment, glancing back up the stairs. "Well, Doctor, what now?" she asked quietly.

Watson ran a hand through his sandy hair. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "Holmes is convinced someone is out to kill him – that the _Cessarine Majeste_ affair was just a ruse to get him interested and lure him to his death."

"It wouldn't be the first time," replied Irene. Watson nodded, conceding her point. "Tell you what, Doctor; I'll come back in the morning, and you can tell me all about this _Cessarine Majeste_. I can't guarantee I can help, but I'll certainly try."

"Miss Adler... Irene... I have to ask..."

"Why I want to help him, Doctor? Don't worry. It's nothing to do with Moriarty. Believe it or not, I'm my own agent; not everything I do is at the beck and call of someone else. Sure, during the Blackwood case I was employed by him – but I also had my own reasons for wanting to be involved."

"Which are?" he asked, his blue eyes narrowing. Irene merely smiled, reaching up to pat his cheek.

"The same as yours, John. The same as yours."

With that she ducked her head and was gone, striding swiftly up the street to hail a passing hansom. Watson stood on the threshold and watched her go before turning back inside and closing the door behind him.

Mrs Hudson stood by the bottom of the stairs, having overheard the conversation. She frowned at the doctor.

"That woman is trouble, Dr Watson, mark my words," she warned him. He was about to answer when he heard a footstep at the top of the staircase. He glanced up to see Holmes standing there, staring into space.

"Holmes?" he asked quietly and took a step towards the stairs. Mrs Hudson laid a hand on his forearm.

"He can't hear you – look at his eyes," she remarked quietly. "Mr Holmes is sleep-walking again."

As Watson walked back up the stairs, he could see Mrs Hudson was right; Holmes' eyes were blank and glassy, unseeing. He stood quite still, the violin cradled in his arms. One hand gently caressed the neck of the violin, but he made no move to pluck the strings. His head was tilted slightly to one side, as though he were listening to something only he could hear.

Watson stood in front of Holmes and waved his hand in front of his blank gaze. Holmes did not react. His face was as blank as the look in those soft grey eyes.

Watson gently took hold of Holmes' shoulders and turned him around, then with a hand at his elbow he guided the somnambulistic detective back slowly into his bedroom. Holmes went quite docilely, oblivious to the doctor at his side. Mrs Hudson followed up behind, and gathered up the discarded coat and shoes Holmes had dropped earlier. She brushed off the coat and hung it up in Holmes' wardrobe as Watson pushed Holmes down to sit upon the edge of the bed. Mrs Hudson placed the shoes down neatly beside the bed and then bustled out again; presently Watson heard the quiet click as she closed the sitting room door behind her and made her way back downstairs to her own rooms.

Watson stared down at Holmes, who sat still on the edge of the bed, still cradling the violin and staring sightlessly into space. Shaking his head with a sigh, Watson tried to take the violin but Holmes' fingers tightened on the precious instrument. He gave up, and gently pushed back upon Holmes' shoulders until his head rested upon the pillow, and then Watson lifted up Holmes' legs onto the bed.

He fetched the eiderdown from the sitting room; when he re-entered the bedroom, Holmes' eyes were closed. Watson covered him over with the quilt and turned to go, but Holmes suddenly rolled onto his side and one languid white hand reached out to grasp the doctor's wrist, trying to draw him back. Watson turned and stared down at his friend. Holmes' eyes were still closed, but as Watson tried to pull away he whimpered faintly.

"Holmes?" whispered Watson softly. "Are you awake?" Another faint whimper answered him. He was fairly certain that Holmes would never willingly have made such a sound were he not asleep. The doctor laid a hand upon Holmes' forehead; it was hot and damp. Watson cupped Holmes' cheek lightly with his hand; Holmes turned his face ever so slightly so he was nuzzling into Watson's palm. When Watson withdrew his hand, Holmes made the faint whimpering noise again, and his brow furrowed in a small, distressed frown until Watson stroked the side of his face reassuringly.

Watson stared down at the sleeping man for several minutes, his fingertips lightly tracing the line of Holmes' angular jaw, and then he sat on the edge of the bed. Holmes' grip upon his wrist loosened, and then with a small sigh Holmes curled up against Watson, slipping his arm around his waist. Watson took careful hold of the neck of the violin, and this time Holmes willingly relinquished his grip upon it, encircling Watson's waist with that arm too.

Watson leaned over to lay the violin carefully upon the seat of the chair that stood near the bed, then began to unbutton his waistcoat as he kicked off his shoes. He pulled off his collar and cravat, loosening the top two buttons of his shirt, then nudged Holmes over a little before stretching out upon the bed alongside him and pulling the eiderdown over them both.

Holmes snuggled up against Watson's back, sliding his upper hand up Watson's side until his hand rested loosely over Watson's heart, and then he tucked his face in against the nape of Watson's neck. Watson reached up to pat his friend's hand gently, and then sighed.

Silence descended upon the room once more, broken only by the soft sounds of the two sleeping men.


	17. Chapter 17

The weak autumn sunshine was just bright enough to cause Watson to stir. He blinked slowly, for a few minutes disorientated and confused as to where he was. He stared at the ceiling, lying still whilst the fog of dreams slowly lifted from his thoughts.

He was lying on his back, Holmes nestled in against his side, his head resting in the hollow of Watson's shoulder and one arm draped loosely across his chest. Watson glanced down at Holmes, who was still asleep. Watson could feel a slight dampness on his chest; Holmes appeared to have slightly drooled upon his shirt in his sleep. Rather than irritation, this only made Watson feel a tender indulgent warmth towards the sleeping detective, and he smiled down at him, gently reaching across to stroke back the sleep-mussed black hair with his fingertips.

Holmes stirred slightly, tilting his head back. The long dark eyelashes fluttered briefly and he sighed before opening his eyes slowly. His grey eyes held a faraway, dreamy expression.

"Holmes?"  
"Mmm." He blinked sluggishly, gaze still abstracted.  
"Holmes, are you awake?"  
"Mmm." He closed his eyes again with a faint frown. "'M awake. I think."  
"How do you feel, old boy?"  
"Tired," he replied quietly. He was silent for a while, and then his eyes opened again with a languidity born of fatigue. "Was I sleep-walking again last night?"

Watson nodded. "Afraid so. You were most restless until I lay down with you."

Holmes made a small noise of distress in the back of his throat and rolled away from Watson, hunching in upon himself. Watson sat up and stared down at him sadly. He reached out to touch Holmes' shoulder reassuringly, but paused, his hand hovering just above the trembling arm.

"Holmes, what are you afraid of?" he whispered.

"Nothing! I am not afraid of anything!" retorted Holmes shrilly, curling up further into himself.

"Holmes-"

"Don't touch me!" Holmes cried, hugging himself before burying his face in his hands. "I don't know what is happening to me, I, I don't understand it... I am not like this, this isn't me, John!"

Watson turned away, stung by Holmes' rejection. He set his feet upon the floor and made to rise; but as he shifted his weight, Holmes turned and reached out for him. "John..."

Watson glanced back over his shoulder. In the anaemic light of the morning, Holmes looked like a revenant of his old self; his hollow eyes were filled with a haunted look, his skin too sallow and pale for health, his face gaunt and unshaven. He looked like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown - if, indeed, he were not within the throes of one already.

Watson turned back towards Holmes and took his trembling hands in his own. "My dear Holmes, you are very unwell. I am afraid for you. You have no idea how much it pains me to see you like this."

"I am afraid for me too," whispered Holmes with a ghastly smile. "Nothing seems to help anymore. Even sleep brings no surcease because when I sleep, I dream. Yet waking is like an unbearable dream to me too now. I told you before that I was afraid I was going mad, John; and I am - I am so terribly afraid!" His grip tightened upon Watson's hands as they were the only thing holding him to sanity.

"Would you like me to sedate you again?" asked Watson unwillingly. "So you may at least sleep a while longer?"

"Would you, John?" There was such a look of relief in Holmes' eyes that Watson nodded, in spite of his misgivings.

"Wait here," he said quietly, withdrawing his hands from Holmes' grip. He slipped from the bed and went in search of his gladstone bag. He fetched a glass tumbler of brandy and brought it plus the bag back into the bedroom. Setting the tumbler down upon the bedside table, he opened the bag and rummaged around until he found the small stoppered jar of chloral. Measuring out a precise dose, he stirred it carefully into the brandy, and then held out the glass to Holmes.

Holmes sat up and accepted the glass and swirled the dark liquid, staring down at it thoughtfully. Then he put the glass to his lips and drained it steadily until the glass was empty.

"How long will it-" He broke off, eyes unfocusing as he swayed slightly. Watson caught the glass as it fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. "Oh."

Watson set down the glass then gently slipped his arm around Holmes' shoulders, easing him back down onto the pillows. "Easy, Holmes," he said as the drowsy man tried to clutch at his arm.

"John, I... I..." A confused look shadowed his grey eyes as they glazed over again; and then slowly, languidly, his eyes closed and his face went slack as the Mickey Finn rapidly took possession of his senses and he sank swiftly into a deep unconsciousness.

Watson stepped back and realised his hands were trembling. The glass tumbler clattered against the wood as he set it down again upon the bedside table. He drew a shaking hand across his brow, and then turned and left the room as quickly as his unco-operative legs would allow. He staggered into the sitting room and fell, rather than sat, down into his chair and sank his face into his hands. He thought about brandy but did not trust his legs just yet. He raked his hands through his hair then rubbed his face, feeling a black wave of despair wash over him. Holmes' state was taking its toll upon Watson; he was not sure how much longer he could keep this up.

A quiet knock at the door interrupted his despondent train of thought; as he straightened, Mrs Hudson stepped into the room. Seeing the state of him, she shook her head sadly at him, her eyes warm with sympathy. "Miss Adler is here to see you, Doctor; from the looks of you though, perhaps I should send her away?"

Watson shook his head. "That won't be necessary, Mrs Hudson; show her in - I would appreciate a pot of coffee though, if it's not too much touble?"

"No trouble at all, Doctor," replied Mrs Hudson with a nod. She opened the door wider and gestured Irene in before closing the door quietly behind her.

"I've found her!" cried Irene excitedly. "You won't believe it, John, but I found her!"

"Found who?" asked Watson, confused and a little overwhelmed by Irene's exuberence so soon after dealing with Holmes.

"Who do you think, silly?" she said with a smile, sweeping off her coat and throwing her hat onto the end of the settee as she crossed the room to perch herself on the edge of Holmes' chair. She peered at him, a look of concern flitting across her dainty features. "Are you alright, John? You look rather unwell."

"Fine, fine," grumbled Watson. "Who have you found?"

"Why, the _Cessarine Majeste_ of course!"


	18. Chapter 18

Watson stared at Irene, thinking for a minute he had misheard. "The boat?"

Irene rolled her eyes at him. "Of _course_ the boat; what else did you think I was talking about?" She glanced around. "Where's Sherlock? He ought to hear what I've found out too; not still in bed is he?" She rose to her feet and swept over towards the open bedroom door.

"Wait – Irene, don't!" hissed Watson, lurching to his feet, but he was too late to forestall her; she pressed on into the bedroom. Watson followed as far as the door, where he leaned against the door frame.

Irene was bent over the sleeping Holmes, gently shaking him. "Sherlock? Come on and open those pretty grey eyes..." She frowned then took hold of his jaw in one firm yet delicate hand; his head rolled bonelessly in her grasp. She lifted one arm then let it drop limp and heavy back onto the bed. Pushing back one bruised-looking eyelid, she peered into the dreaming eye which was unfocused and unseeing. She straightened up and turned back to Watson. "What did you give him?" she demanded.

"Chloral hydrate in brandy. He should be out for a few more hours," replied the doctor, turning and limping back towards his chair. Irene's brows drew together in a frown as she stormed after him; Watson suddenly stopped and span on his heel and she nearly ran into the angry finger that was brandished towards her face. "Do not presume to lecture me about this, woman; you have done just the same and far worse to him in the past, and at least I had his consent – nay, he _pleaded_ with me for it!"

She stepped back, hands raised in surrender. "OK, OK, doctor, you've made your point. I will concede that I have, perhaps, taken... _liberties_, with Sherlock in the past-"

"Liberties? _Liberties?__?_ Hah!" Watson had unconsciously drawn himself even taller, towering over Irene as his blue eyes blazed like glacier ice. Irene took another step back as he advanced towards her. "Madam, you have endangered his life directly on no fewer than two past occasions when you so casually breezed into his life then cast him aside when he was of no further use to you. He risked his life for you repeatedly during the Blackwood case, and he _let you go free_ – God knows, woman, that Sherlock Holmes is a far more forgiving man than I, and that is the only reason you remain at _liberty_-" he practically spat the word at her, his eyes narrowed in white-hot fury, "-because believe me very much when I say, Miss Irene Adler, that I would cheerfully swing for your death than allow you to cause any more harm or heartache to Holmes!"

Irene's leg bumped against the leg of the settee and she fell back onto it, white-faced and mute. Watson stood over her, terrifying in his wrath as his chest heaved. He stood still for long minutes, leaning over her whilst he fought to regain his composure before abruptly turning away from her and limping slowly over to the fireplace. He rested one hand on the mantelpiece, his back and shoulders stiff as he slowly calmed himself. Then he glanced up to see Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway.

The landlady regarded him thoughtfully for a minute or so, then stepped into the room bearing a tray laden with a pot of coffee, cups and saucers, a small jug of cream and a bowl of brown sugar. She carefully set it down upon the low table beside Holmes' chair. Then ignoring Irene, she made her way over to the bedroom door to check upon the unconscious man before turning to nod to Watson.

"He has not woken, thanks be to God," she said softly. "Pray keep your voices low so that he remains asleep." Then quietly she left the room as silently as she had entered, drawing the door closed behind her.

Thus chastised, Watson studied the floor for a few minutes as Irene attempted to regain her own composure. Then drawing a deep breath, he drew himself up and turned to face her again.

Irene likewise drew breath. "It is true that I have much reason to be grateful to Sherlock for his mercy," she admitted. "And I must confess that perhaps I have underestimated you, also, Dr Watson." She glanced up at him shrewdly. "You love him very much." It was an observation rather than a question.

"More than life itself," he agreed.

"And yet still you are engaged to marry your Mary."

"I will not ask how you know her name," he replied stiffly, a look of pain in his eyes. "I must ask that you do not mention her again however."

"But why?" pressed Irene. "If you love Sherlock-"

"There is no question of it! I love him, but I, I cannot have him. He cannot ever know."

"He doesn't return your feelings." There was sympathy in her soft green eyes.

"He cannot," replied Watson sadly.

Silently, Irene reached out for his hand. Sinking down upon the settee beside her, he let her take his hand in hers, seeing an answering understanding in her face. She squeezed his hand briefly then let it go, turning her attention to the coffee service. Schooling her face and voice into neutrality, she poured for herself and the doctor before slowly stirring sugar into her own cup slowly. "He is not an easy man to love," she said thoughtfully. Watson concentrated on adding cream to his own cup, not quite trusting himself to talk yet. She darted him a sidelong glance which slowly travelled from his face down to the trembling of his hands; aware of her scrutiny, he set the cup down and let his hands fall to his knees.

"I have no intentions of harming Sherlock," she said steadily, stirring her coffee before sipping it. "Believe it or not, what I told you last night was the truth; I'm doing this for just the same reasons you are. I don't like to see him in this state any more than you do. I just don't think drugging him is the way to go about it."

Watson ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "Then what else would you do, Irene? The man's cracking up through sheer exhaustion, never mind the dreams and all the rest. Every time he closes his eyes he has screaming nightmares. He twists and turns so much in the throes of his nightmares that he has nearly throttled himself with his own bedsheet, and if I am not physically present in the room he becomes restless to the point of sleep-walking." He wiped a hand down his face then gestured at the bedroom doorway. "The only way he rests at all is when I sedate him. And I like it even less than you do, believe me."

Irene set her cup down carefully upon the tray. "Just how bad is it - the sleep-walking, I mean?" she inquired.

"Bad," admitted Watson. "Very bad." He began to describe to her the events of only a couple of days previously - had it truly been only three nights that had passed since they had found Holmes floating face-down in those chill waters? It seemed much longer, somehow. Irene turned pale at the description of how Holmes had been dragged from the canal by Clarky and revived by their efforts before being brought home. Watson went on to describe Holmes' rambling, fevered words about the old man, the dog, and the mysterious _Cessarine Majeste_ which had eluded them repeatedly, and which Holmes seemed so fervently obsessed about.

"But it's not as though Sherlock hasn't faced death before," remarked Irene in puzzled tones. "In fact, I'd almost say he makes a regular habit of it - look how many times he came close to it simply in the Blackwood case alone. He taunts danger and courts death on a near-daily basis when on a case. Why the canal? What is it about that which has him so horribly fascinated?"

Watson shook his head. "I don't know. But maybe if we can get to the bottom of this case..."

Irene nodded. "Well, as I told you earlier, I've found the boat. She's moored down near Mile End. Looked to be abandoned, so far as I could tell."

"How the devil did you..."

Irene smiled and waggled a finger. "Time for that later, Doc. Why don't you start at the beginning and tell me all about this _Cessarine Majeste _case and how Sherlock got all mixed up in it, and then I'll tell you how I found her."

Watson eyed her thoughtfully, then nodded. "Very well." He pushed himself to his feet and began to slowly pace before the fireplace.

"It was three weeks ago that we first heard the name of the _Cessarine Majeste_..."


	19. Chapter 19

"Holmes and I had been investigating a fencing ring following a spate of thefts in Kensington. It was a most peculiar set of burglaries; the only items taken in each theft had been silverware – cutlery, coffee services, that sort of thing. It would have been quite a mundane investigation for all of that, except that none of the items had been seen to move through the usual fencing venues, and some of the houses thus afflicted by the spate had been of the nobility.

"The burglaries had been vexing the brains of Scotland yard and providing much fodder for speculation in the newspapers for a period of some two months now, and Holmes being between cases it was not difficult to pique his interest in the subject. It was most peculiar that none of the silverware – nearly all of which was quite distinctive in one way or another due to hallmarks, custom inscriptions, particular designs or heraldry and the like – had been traced to or from any of the known fencers or appeared on the black market. This much had already been established by the likes of Gregson and Lestrade, who had had reason to combine resources upon this case due to the locations of some thefts and other overlapping jurisdictions; certainly it was not due to any natural friendship between the two men, for their rivalry at the yard was well-known and even extended so far as to who might bring Holmes in upon the case first.

"I was uncertain as to whether they considered it a sign of admission of failure or scoring points off the other to bring in London's greatest – and indeed, at that time, only – consulting detective; the matter was rendered moot however, as Holmes' services – and by extension, mine as his companion and chronicler – had already been retained by several households jointly who desired an answer to the whereabouts of their property when Gregson and Lestrade both appeared upon the doorstep of 221b Baker Street.

"Holmes of course was well aware of the reason for their visit, which is not to say that he did not take a certain perverse pleasure in drawing out the conversation before revealing that he already knew of their lamentable lack of success thus far upon the case. However he was not adverse to assisting the Law so long as it did not interfere unduly with his own investigation.

"With Holmes upon the case, it was not long before he had,by use of his disguises and various contacts, ascertained the name of a specific contact who, it was known, would pay decently for any pure silver that might happen to come upon the market, so long as it did not pass through any of the usual hands. Holmes had uncovered word of a burglary to be attempted upon one particular house in Portman Square, and so we had made our way there, it not being that far from Baker Street and thus presenting an ideal opportunity to observe where the silver would be transported to.

"We clad ourselves in dark clothing and walked to Portman Square where we concealed ourselves in a bush behind the railings surrounding the verdant planted garden in the centre of the square. It afforded us the ideal vantage point to observe the comings and goings of the occupants and visitors to the street, and by midnight the street was nearly deserted. Our vigil was an uncomfortable one, it being a cold, rather unpleasant evening. The cold damp conditions exacerbated the pain and cramp I was experiencing in my leg, and I will confess that I was rather distracted in consequence. Holmes however soon discerned our marks, and alerted me with a silent hand upon my shoulder as they exited the house via the servants' entrance.

"The conditions of the weather made following the thieves rather easier than we had hoped, for it meant we could let them get rather further ahead than perhaps otherwise we could have done – the marks of their passing were even distinguishable to one such as myself, let alone to one with the observational acuities of Holmes. They did not head south, as we might have expected, but instead headed rather north and west towards Paddington.

"After a while it became obvious that they were making for the wharfs of the Grand Union Canal quite close to the railway station. Rather than make for any of the public houses or warehouses in that area, they made directly for the canal itself; and as we watched from behind the safety of a pile of shipping crates, we observed the men board a barge moored their with their ill-gotten gains. We waited patiently for some time, and presently the men reappeared, empty-handed.

"Holmes was able to make out the name of the barge by means of a small spyglass; it was the _Cessarine Majeste. _We had established where the silverware was being taken to, but were still none the wiser as to why. It did not seem plausible that one barge owner could be commissioning the theft of so much silverware for one single customer, as is sometimes the case with fencers; there must be some other reason for requiring such a large volume of silver.

"Even as Holmes pondered this, there suddenly came a tremendous noise from the barge as of some form of machinery being started up. Great clouds of steam were emitted from the stack-house to the rear of the barge. Curious, Holmes and I moved closer, but at that moment the _Cessarine Majeste_ cast off and began to move under the power of her steam engine. She moved too fast for us to keep up with upon foot however, and soon passed out of sight.

"We returned to Baker Street to get our rest; we had no idea in which direction the barge had gone. Had she gone upstream from Little Venice, then she could be well on her way towards the Home Counties and even so far as to Birmingham. But had she turned east instead of west, then there was the whole stretch of water clear to Mile End open to her, together with all the small docks and wharves along the way where she might dock and be missed.

"And so we had to formulate a plan."


	20. Chapter 20

Irene poured herself another cup of coffee; she gestured with the pot towards Watson's cup and he nodded gratefully. She refilled his cup, then set down the pot.

"At that point surely it was time to call in the police and let them do the legwork?" she remarked.

"Oh, certainly," agreed Watson. "And indeed, Scotland Yard was our next port of call for just that purpose. But there was more to the puzzle than simply that of tracking down a single barge."

"Naturally," agreed Irene. "Holmes wouldn't have gotten out of bed for any common-or-garden theft like that. Now, a mobile fencing ring – that would have intrigued him more, simply from the point of view of the possibilities offered - but still pretty much in the realms of the mundane. He must have been wanting to find out where the silver was going – and I'm willing to bet it was sufficiently out of the ordinary to pique his curiosity."

Watson took a sip of his coffee and nodded. "Correct," he confirmed. "It didn't take long for an alert to go out and the hunt to start for the barge. Holmes didn't leave it just to the Yarders though.

"Holmes had his own sources on the streets, and he made use of them – street informants he trusted, contacts in the dockyards, and the Irregulars of course. They were the most invaluable of all; it was from them that he learned the _Cessarine Majeste_ passed through Camden Lock every so often. It would moor there for a certain period of time before continuing on downstream, heading east.

"We had no idea why it moored there, but the most likely explanation was for a prearranged _rendezvous_, and so Holmes determined that we should try to intercept the next such meeting. We had a great deal of misfortune in trying to ascertain when the next meeting should be; we repeatedly got there either just in time to see her disappearing off into the distance, or not at all. Sometimes we saw her passing the other way, whatever mission she had been about obviously already completed for she was always riding higher in the water when passing upstream than she did going downstream, her cargo discharged somewhere as she returned, empty.

"Sometimes she varied her route; we had various reports of her being sighted upon the Thames itself, and often then she would vanish for days at a time before steaming at full speed back up the Grand Union, once again empty and with us none the wiser.

"But finally we had the breakthrough we needed; Holmes managed to overhear a conversation in a tavern suggesting the next docking of the _Cessarine Majeste_ at Camden was to be two nights following, and so with the assistance of the police we determined to spring a trap for her crew and come upon them as they completed whatever transaction should be occurring at the lock. We should be able to cach them red-handed with their cargo of stolen silver and discover to what use they were putting it.

"We had mistimed things slightly however; whatever clandestine meeting had taken place, the _Cessarine Majeste_ was making ready to depart and the person or persons unknown had already departed.

"I remember it was a damp night, and the smog was heavy – almost peculiarly so down by the water; it was a foul brownish colour, and I remember it had a queer, sharpish scent to it that night. We could hear the engine of the barge clearly over the sounds of the water though, and we knew we must hurry if we were to have any hopes of catching up to her. My leg was playing up badly, and I fell behind; Clarky hung back to accompany me as Holmes sprinted on ahead; the smog rapidly swallowed him up within a few paces.

"Suddenly from up ahead I heard an odd, almost muffled cry, and then a splash as of something falling into the water. Pushing on, I hurried to find Holmes struggling in the water; his feet had become entwined in the water weed and the current was dragging him under. I have no doubt that had I not arrived when I did, he would have drowned. As it was, the shock of almost drowning caused him to swoon terribly once I had succeeded in dragging him to the bank with the assistance of the police."

Watson drained his cup and set it down, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "Since then he has been plagued by the most horrific nightmares. They cause him to go sleep-walking if I am not near; it is as if he were seeking me out. He has become afraid to sleep, and I fear the strain is destroying his nerves. He can only find peace when I drug him so deeply as to be beyond dreaming, and yet his body resists the drugs. I dare not increase the dose any further however; he is already at the limit of what I dare give him – any more and I risk poisoning him."

Irene nodded understanding. "So, he thinks that if we can find the _Cessarine Majeste_ and solve this mystery, he might finally be at peace and he'll be able to lay his demons to rest?"

Watson nodded again, leaning back in his chair. "You say you have found her?" he asked. She grinned, her eyes lighting up with glee.

"I certainly have!" she announced.

"But how? You only heard her name last night; how did you manage to locate one boat amongst so many moored all over London?"

"Simplicity itself," replied Irene confidently. "Do you have a copy of the morning paper?"

"Yes, here; Mrs Hudson brings it in with the mail at breakfast time," replied Watson, getting up and fetching it. Irene took it from him and flipped over to the back pages, where she traced her finger over some adverts. She tapped one immaculately manicured nail upon the page.

"There you go," she said. "What do you see?"

Watson took the paper from her and peered down at the paper. It appeared to be an advertisement for a chemical wholesalers, proclaiming the range of goods available for sale to various trades. Much of what they manufactured appeared to be industrial chemicals, including those for the relatively new and thriving industry of photography.

"I don't understand, where-" he began.

"Look closer – at the photograph accompanying the advert," replied Irene with a smile.

Watson looked closer. It appeared to be a fairly typical image of the outside of the factory, with the owner and his business partner outside shaking hands. Watson squinted at it harder; he could just about make out what appeared to be a wharf in the background, and moored there -

"The _Cessarine Majeste_!" he exclaimed. He glanced back at the advert; sure enough, the address was listed as being Salmon Lane, Mile End. "And you went there this morning before coming here?"

"I hired a fast hansom; there was little traffic at that hour."

Watson frowned. "Just what time _were_ you up and about, Irene?"

She merely grinned. "So, Doc, what say you we take a wander down there and have a poke around? As I told you before, she looked pretty much to be abandoned; no signs of life about, and no-one on board to guard her as far as I could see."

"But what about Holmes?" asked Watson.

"Yes, what about me?" said a rough voice from behind them. They both turned, startled.

Holmes stood in the doorway to his room, clutching his violin to his chest; as they stared at him, he flicked the fingers of his right hand across the strings, striking a discordant chord. A blanket from his bed trailed haphazardly from his left shoulder. His hair was in wild disarray, and his eyes were hollow and haunted, the skin around them bruised and shadowed, standing out all the more in contrast against the ghastly pallor of his face. His jowls were shadowed with rough stubble.

He looked from Watson to Irene, and then his eyes flicked back again. He swayed slightly and put one hand against the door frame to steady himself, then he shook his head and frowned. He pointed at Watson. "You were going to leave me again." His voice was flat with anger, his eyes glittering dangerously.

"Holmes..."

"Don't deny it!" he cried, taking an unsteady step forwards then staggering over towards Irene. He clutched at the back of the settee, glaring at her. "You would both have left me," he slurred.

"Sherlock, you're drunk and drugged," said Irene soothingly. "You need to rest. Come on, come and lie down here on the couch." She patted the cushion next to her invitingly.

He blinked at her, then looked down at the settee. "Yes," he said slowly and carefully. "I am very tired."

Watson rose to his feet and moved the small breakfast table out of the way, then took Holmes' arm as the disorientated man moved unsteadily round the end of the settee. Irene shifted along the seat as Watson helped him gently down. Holmes sat for a moment blinking, then turned slightly and lay down so that his head was resting in Irene's lap.

"Hah. Now you can't go anywhere without me," he said distinctly, enunciating each word with deliberate preciseness.

"No, you're right, Sherlock, I can't," Irene replied fondly, stroking the soft black hair. Watson fought down an irrational burst of jealousy and glanced away.

"You're not going to leave me on my own. Either of you." Holmes' voice was growing more slurred despite his efforts to the contrary; his eyes were closing drowsily. "I absolutely... absolutely for... forbid it."

"Sherlock, of course we're not going anywhere without you," said Irene soothingly as she continued to stroke his hair. Watson glanced at her; she shrugged her shoulders at him helplessly.

"Oh. That's good," replied Holmes, his eyes drifting shut. "So glad we cleared that one up..."

Watson threw up his hands in resignation then sat down to pour himself another coffee as Holmes began to very gently snore.


	21. Chapter 21

Holmes slept steadily, barely stirring, for a further four hours. Whenever his eyelids flickered or his breathing seemed to hitch in his chest as he frowned, Irene would gently stroke his hair until his face smoothed and he relaxed again.

Watson had quietly removed the violin from unresisting fingers, carefully replacing it in its case, then drawn the blanket up over Holmes to his chest before retreating to his chair once more. He flicked idly through the morning paper; he quietly read out a few items of interest to Irene much as he usually did with Holmes without really thinking about it. Irene listened politely, smiling gently at Watson's inclusion of her in what was obviously a morning ritual normally shared with Holmes.

Mrs Hudson came to fetch the coffee tray and was torn between giving Irene a disapproving glare and expressing approval of Holmes' somnolent state; she settled instead for a tight-lipped nod before departing. Irene smirked to herself as Watson went through his morning correspondence, seemingly oblivious to the interplay between the two women.

Watson, for his part, was completely aware of the unvoiced exchange between the two women and concealed his own amusement rather better than Irene; if she had been playing closer attention she might have caught the slight twinkle in his blue eyes. Certainly he was more aware than she was when Holmes' breathing shifted pattern towards that of waking. He rose to his feet and excused himself to call down to Mrs Hudson for tea and a bite of lunch.

"Somewhat early for lunch I would have thought?" remarked Irene. "It's barely past noon, after all."

"Rather late for breakfast however, and Holmes needs to eat," replied Watson, making his way over to the settee and kneeling down beside them. "How are you feeling, Holmes old boy?"

Irene glanced down in surprise as Holmes shifted slightly. "Well spotted, Watson. How long were you aware I was awake?" he said quietly, eyes still closed.

"You still haven't got the hang of maintaining a sleeping breath pattern," replied Watson with a smile as Holmes opened his eyes and glanced over at him. Holmes smiled ruefully.

"Only a doctor – and a particularly observant one at that – would know however," he remarked. Watson inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

"After so long around you, Holmes, something was bound to rub off on me," he replied. He patted Homes' arm. "Come on, up with you now; I dare say a good cup of tea and something to eat is just what you could do with right now."

Holmes sat up with some assistance from Irene and ran his hands slowly over his face. "I feel like I've been dead to the world for days," he remarked quietly.

"Well, in a way you have," replied Watson as he struggled up to his feet then reached for the newspaper. He opened it to the advert then handed it to Holmes, who rose to his feet and slowly strode towards the window as he studied it carefully. He sat down upon the windowsill then twisted around sideways to draw his feet up onto the sill as he leaned back against the window frame. Flipping the newspaper over to the front page he began to go through it in his usual idiosyncratic manner, pulling out certain pages and tossing them over onto his desk for later study before pulling out his pipe from his pocket, filling and lighting it then puffing steadily upon it as he turned his attention to the rest of the paper.

Watson opened the door as Mrs Hudson came up the stairs; he held it open for her as she entered bearing a tray.

"I see you must be feeling better, Mr Holmes; you're back to poisoning the air already. Have you not had enough of the London smog already in your lungs but that you must pollute them further?" she sniffed disdainfully as she set the tray down then moved to the windows, throwing open the long drapes and lifting the sash windows. Holmes scooted to one side as she reached for the window he sat in and flapped the newspaper at her.

"Away with you, Nanny; can't you see I'm busy, woman?"

"Away with you yourself!" she retorted, shooing him away from the window with her apron.

"The woman's a menace; Watson, we are positively besieged by the female of the species – this simply will not do," Holmes muttered as he strode rapidly out of her way as she returned to the doorway. She glanced back over her shoulder at him, then winked conspiratorially at Watson as he passed a cup of tea to Holmes, who stood by the fire with his back to them both.

"You're obviously feeling better, Sherlock," remarked Irene as she reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup of tea. He glared at her over the rim of his own teacup as he threw the remains of the newspaper down into the coal scuttle.

Suddenly he went still, staring into space for a few minutes. "But of course," he said softly. "How couldI have missed it? I am a damned fool..." Setting down his teacup he snatched up one of the silver teaspoons and leapt over the settee, bounding across the room to the table where his chemicals and apparatus were spread out. Sitting himself down he set the teaspoon over a piece of paper and took up a small file. He began to rasp off a small pile of grey powder findings which he then carefully tipped into a test tube.

Irene rose from her seat; she and Watson exchanged glances then silently ghosted closer to Holmes as he hunched over the table, long slender fingers seeking out then selecting a glass bottle of acid. Gently he siphoned up a small amount with a pipette then he added it to the silver powder. Sealing his thumb over the end, he swirled the liquid swiftly, and a reddish-brown gas began to form.

"There, see; do you see it, Watson? Do you see it?" He turned to Watson, his eyes bright with triumph. "What does that remind you of?"

"The smog the night we almost caught the _Cessarine Majeste_!" exclaimed Watson.

"Yes indeed!" replied Holmes. "And if I am not mistaken..." He removed his thumb from the end of the tube and a queer, unpleasantly sourish smell wafted out into the room. Irene reeled back, putting her handkerchief over her nose.

"What is that stench?" she gasped.

"The very same thing we could smell in the smog that night; a rather noxious gas," replied Holmes as he rose to his feet. "The by-product formed when-" He broke off, suddenly gasping for breath. The test tube fell from his fingers as he staggered.

Watson caught him as he fell; Irene came to his assistance and they half-carried the fainting detective to the nearest window where he breathed heavily, coughing and gasping for air. After a while the colour returned to his cheeks and his breathing eased as he leaned against the window frame, drawing in great lungfuls of air.

"Holmes, that was very foolish of you!" chided Watson. "What on earth were you trying to achieve? What was that gas?"

"I was proving my hypothesis, and at the same time establishing just how I came to be in the water," replied Holmes, turning slowly to lean upon the windowsill. He held up his thumb, which was black where it had sealed the top of the test tube. "What do you make of that?"

"Why, it's been stained somehow!" exclaimed Watson.

"Indeed. And now I think all the parts of this mystery are beginning to fall into place," replied Holmes as he pushed himself up and returned to the table, retrieving the test tube from the floor. The liquid had spilled upon the rug, leaving a black stain.

"Go on," said Irene. "What was that stuff you added to the silver?"

"All in good time," replied Holmes, setting the test tube back in a rack then turning his attention to the covered dishes upon the tray. "Ah, devilled eggs! Excellent," he remarked, seating himself upon the settee and reaching for a napkin. "I am utterly famished."

Watson and Irene exchanged glances, then moved to join him.


	22. Chapter 22

Holmes strode along the wharfside, head down in thought. Irene sat on a mooring bollard and watched him thoughtfully as Watson peered in through a porthole on the barge.

"Well, I'd say you're right, Irene," he mused, straightening up. "It looks as though it's been abandoned all right. I can see what looks like a whole chemical lab set-up in there, and some sort of machinery – for grinding down the silver, perhaps. There are several large, what looks like empty jars." He pointed to a plank that lay askew on the path near the edge. "They obviously unloaded a load of liquids; they've spilled some." He pointed to black splash stains on the plank and towpath with his cane. "Wonder what it was."

"We already know what it was," replied Holmes distractedly. "Silver nitrate." He turned and walked back to join Watson. He held up his thumb to show the black stain, then gestured at the stains. "Silver nitrate is more valuable than silver itself – and how better to improve one's profit margins than to source the silver illegally?" He nimbly jumped across onto the bow of the barge and tugged at the doors. "All very clever of course; a floating factory. Picks up the silver near Paddington, drops off silver nitrate here by Limehouse before steaming back up the Grand Union – or up the Thames if they feel like someone has been snooping around too much and want to throw off pursuit." He knelt down and unrolled his lock-picks. Glancing through them, he selected a couple of jemmies and a folding skeleton-key set and studied the lock carefully. He paused, looking closer at the wooden door, then tucked the tools into his pocket for a moment as he leaned closer, wiping a gloved finger carefully around the lock-plate. Tentatively he brought the gloved finger to his nose and sniffed it, frowning.

Watson rolled his eyes and jumped across to join Holmes. He was about to kick the doors in when Holmes' hand snapped up and caught his ankle, throwing Watson off balance. He clutched at the railing for support.

"What did you do that for?" he protested. "You nearly had me in the water!"

"Better in the drink than in the fire, old boy," remarked Holmes quietly. "Come here and tell me what you can smell."

Watson knelt down awkwardly next to Holmes and sniffed cautiously as Irene rose to her feet and came over to see what was going on.

"I smell ammonium, acetylene, and... is that saltpetre?" Watson said slowly.

Holmes nodded and brushed his gloved palm very slowly and gently over the wooden door. It came away slightly iridescent with a black metallic dust. "I strongly suggest, Watson, that we get off this boat. Now. And whatever you do, don't rock the boat."

Watson's eyes widened slightly, then he nodded understanding. Cautiously he climbed off the boat, Irene lending him a hand, and then they both turned to hold out their hands to Holmes.

"Careful; don't touch my glove," he warned them as they took hold of the elbows of his coat and helped him onto dry land. Once across, he carefully peeled off the glove.

"Watch," he said quietly, and hurled the glove at the ground.

It exploded.

Watson threw himself down over Irene as Holmes turned away, covering his head as small fragments of stone ricocheted towards them. "Dear God in Heaven, what was that?" cried Watson, looking round at the blackened spot where Holmes' glove had been.

Holmes glanced back himself, his face rather pale. "Fulminating silver," he said, his voice a trifle shaky.

Irene sat up and stared at the blackened spot, then over at the _Cessarine Majeste_. "If you'd kicked that door..." she said slowly to Watson. The blood drained from his face as the full import of what had just happened and how close he'd come to death struck home.

"It's a contact explosive," said Holmes quietly. "As well as being extremely toxic; that's why I told you to avoid touching my glove. If you'd kicked that door, we would all be dead and the _Cessarine Majeste_ just a few sticks of matchwood in the water."

"Then she wasn't used just for silver nitrate production," breathed Irene. "She was a floating explosives factory."

Holmes nodded. "It's easy to see why they abandoned her; she must be so contaminated by explosives by now as to be rendered unusable. They've shifted all the explosives off her; the question is, where to – and what were they making such quantities for?"

"What's that ticking noise?" asked Watson suddenly.

They all went silent. A slow steady muffled _tock-tock-tock_ sound was coming from somewhere upon the boat. Suddenly Irene pointed to the stern of the boat.

"There, near the smoke stack!" she said. "Some sort of mechanical device!"

"A timer maybe?" pondered Holmes.

"Triggered by a tilt switch of some sort maybe," agreed Irene. "Set off when you boarded the boat perhaps?"

"Don't you think perhaps we should run then?" suggested Watson, scrambling to his feet and offering a hand to Irene.

"Excellent suggestion, old boy," replied Holmes, also offering Irene his hand. Together they hauled her to her feet and then, one on either side of her, they all set off running as fast as they could towards the main road.

And then suddenly the world exploded.

Time seemed to slow. It seemed silent. Why was it silent? Surely there should have been a great roar; but Holmes' ears instead were filled with a strange ringing. He could see Irene turn towards him as the shockwave hit and swept them up off their feet; she seemed to be shouting something but he couldn't hear it.

He watched Watson stumble, drop his cane, clutch at his ears. He seemed to be screaming. Why couldn't Holmes hear him?

Swept off their feet. The ground rushed up to meet them. He couldn't stop himself; his body smashed into the ground, into a wall, into hard brick and stone and pain. He couldn't breathe; all the air knocked out of his body by the blast.

Sky. Ground. Light. Dark. Silence, that oppressive silence, only the tinnitus clamouring in his ears like an alarm bell ringing too late; too late.

John. Irene. Where were they?

Pain. Pain. Pain.

Merciful blackness.


	23. Chapter 23

The ground was hard and cold beneath him through his coat. The stone pavement was gritty and slightly damp against his cheek. He could feel he was covered with something; detritus, rocks, broken bricks he guessed from the scent of brick dust that hung heavy in the air, along with the sharp tang of explosives and the thick coppery smell of blood.

His blood, he presumed; the side of his face was wet and sticky, and he could feel it trickling through his hair.

Something large and very heavy lay across his left arm and leg, pinning him to the ground; he tried flexing his fingers, but a sharp pain along his forearm dissuaded him from further effort as a wave of nausea rolled through him. _Broken then_. He began to mentally tally his injuries dispassionately.

Breathing difficult; sensation of pressure in left side of rib cage t_hree ribs broken, sternum bruised_. Dull ache and sensation of heat in left ankle, _twisted, not broken_, scrapes to left cheek, blood across face and in hair _a scalp wound, likely not deep, clean and unlikely to be a source of infection due to blood flow. _Sundry other bruises _glancing blows from debris and from the fall_. A ringing in left ear _tinnitus, after effect of the explosion_ -

An explosion. There had been an explosion. John and Irene -

He tried to sit up and failed, only succeeding in dislodging a few broken bricks from his chest and right arm. Clumsily he freed his right arm with some effort, managing to clear away the detritus around his head; enough to see that it was quite late in the day, and that he was pinned down by a section of fallen wall. Levering himself up on his right elbow, he tried to shove the brickwork aside, but it was too heavy and the effort made him dizzy. He lay back, panting, as the world span hazily around him for a few minutes.

As he lay there, helpless, he could hear footsteps approaching. The stride was wrong for Watson; too masculine for Irene. Too long for the small, rodent-like Lestrade. Gregson? No, too heavy for him; likewise, Hopkins. Clarky? No, wrong again.

He gave up trying to second-guess and lay still, closing his eyes.

"Well, well, well," said a rough voice slowly. "Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe." A stout, iron-ferruled stick poked him hard in the left shoulder; Holmes groaned as the blow elicited a sharp stab of pain from his arm. "Not dead then? That's good, that's good..."

Holmes opened his eyes, blinking the blood out of them slowly as he stared up at the figure crouching over him. The face seemed vaguely familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. "Watson? Irene?" he croaked, then coughed, wincing as each spasm sent a sharp stab of pain through his body.

The old man laughed; a harsh, unkind sound, like that of a crow cawing. "Went and left ya, didn't they? Left you behind, they did."

_No._ Irene he could believe it of, but not Watson. Never Watson. "You lie," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Don't need to. See for yourself; the only ones here are thee and me."

Holmes didn't bother taking his eyes away from the old man. "What do you want?" he growled.

"Why should I want anything?" challenged the old man. "Maybe I just like to sit here and watch you die, _Mr_ Holmes."

"I'm not dead yet," said Holmes quietly.

"Not yet. But you will be. No-one knows you're here. And it's going to be a long cold night... might even rain." The old man looked up into the cloudy evening sky, then back down at Holmes. "How long do you reckon you'll last once it starts to rain? Once the cold starts to chill ya to the bone?" He stared down at Holmes, and his smile was cruel. "How long, whilst these stones weigh heavier and heavier on your body, eh?" He took a step up onto the fallen section of wall that pinned Holmes to the ground, and Holmes cried out with a breathless gasp in spite of himself as leg, arm and ribs all erupted in agony. He could feel himself starting to black out as the breath was crushed out of him.

Then the pressure eased slightly and he could breathe again, painfully. "You... don't want me dead," he finally managed to gasp.

"No? How d'you reckon that, then?" asked the old man, leaning closer. Holmes opened his eyes and stared up at him defiantly, a twisted smile upon his blood-flecked lips.

"Because you would have killed me already when you had the chance," he whispered, and laughed despite the pain.

"He's bleedin' mad," remarked a voice from further away in the shadows. The old man shook his head.

"No. He's smart, is this one. Too smart by 'alf. It'll be the death of him someday."

"But not today," wheezed Holmes, still laughing breathlessly. The old man nodded sombrely.

"Not today," he agreed as he turned away, leaning on his walking stick. He clicked his fingers, and a small white terrier bounded over the fallen stones to his heel, following obediently.

"Bring him," he ordered without looking back at the trapped man.

Holmes let his head roll back again, closing his eyes as the old man's followers came forward and started lifting stones and bricks from his bruised and battered body. He was no longer laughing; it hurt enough just to breathe, and he would need to save his strength.

The pain when they levered the wall up off his body nearly caused him to black out. When they hauled him up to his feet, his knees buckled and he would have fallen had they not held him firmly. He let his head fall forwards as he blinked slowly, fighting of the waves of blackness that threatened to overwhelm him. He would have smiled, had he the strength, when the two men holding him briefly conferred as to whether they should tie his hands behind his back; he could barely stand upright.

"I can assure you, gentlemen," he gasped quietly, "that escape is the furthest thought from my mind at this moment."

The two men exchanged glances over his lowered head, then shrugging they dragged his arms over their shoulders and half-dragged, half-carried him away along the tow path. He shuddered as every step caused fresh agony in his ankle and arm. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes against the pain.

He was aware when they paused near a carriage, his sharp senses picking out the sounds and smell of a pair of horses. The carriage door swung open and the undercarriage springs squeaked as the occupant shifted inside.

"Ah, good work," remarked a cultured male voice from the shadows. Holmes haltingly raised his head to peer into the shadows, and then his eyes widened in recognition. "You!" he breathed. "But -"

A wet handkerchief was forced over his mouth and nose, and he weakly struggled against the pervasive vapours of chloroform and the hands that held him. He was falling, falling down into blackness, even as he struggled to hold onto consciousness, the hands that held him captive lifting up into the carriage. His eyes lost their focus and then he slipped away into suffocating darkness.


	24. Chapter 24

"There must be some mistake."

"I'm sorry sir. We've sent officers back to comb every stretch of the area, but there's been no sign. We've got men dredging the canal, but..."

"I don't believe it. I _can't_ believe it."

"Sir, I know it must be a terrible shock to you -"

Watson glanced up at Clark and managed a small, tight little smile. "Thank you, Clark." The note in his voice was one of dismissal; Clark had heard it often enough in Lestrade's voice to recognise it when he heard it. He tugged the brim of his helmet in a brief salute. "Sir." His eyes dark with sympathy, he retreated from the room, leaving Watson in silence.

Watson sat quite still in the bed, face still white and taut with shock.

Holmes couldn't be dead. He _couldn't_. There had to be some other answer.

They hadn't found a body. He clung to that fact like a drowning man clinging to a spar of wood; there was no body. Which meant there was a very good chance Holmes was still alive. _Had _to be alive.

He lay back against the white pillows with a stifled groan; Mary was just outside talking to a doctor, and he didn't want to draw her attention just yet. She had been near-hysterical when he had been brought into the hospital earlier, from what Clark had told him; he'd been oblivious at the time. The police had come to investigate reports of an explosion behind the Smith & White Chemical Company building on Salmon Lane, and found him lying unconscious on the ground amid the wreckage of debris from the explosion which had destroyed utterly the _Cessarine Majeste_; as Holmes had predicted, there was nothing left of the steam barge save matchstick-sized fragments floating on the surface of the murky canal water and hunks of twisted machinery amongst the destroyed brickwork of what was once a wharf-side storage facility for empty containers. There was no sign of either Irene or Holmes apart from one of Holmes' shoes, badly damaged and stained, and his overcoat which was heavily stained with blood about the collar and left shoulder, with the left sleeve almost entirely ripped away.

Watson himself had not escaped unscathed; he had a nasty bruise across his left shoulder-blade which had badly aggravated the old bullet wound in that shoulder, and the doctors had had to remove several fragments of metal from his lower back and his bad leg. It could have been worse, he mused; at least he already had a limp on that side. At present his injuries were more in the realm of nuisance than serious, though you wouldn't have thought so, to hear Mary speak of it.

And speak on it she had, at great length – much of it laying the blame squarely upon Holmes, until Clark brought the news that Holmes was feared dead, whereupon she had fled the room in tears.

It was not the first time he had been injured in an explosion whilst on a case with Holmes, though on that previous occasion he had been the one to trigger the inferno that had engulfed them all; Irene had been there as well, he reflected. He had thought Holmes dead then too, until he had been visited by Holmes in disguise whilst he lay a-bed in the hospital. Though he had been drowsy with morphine, he knew Holmes' touch, the way he moved, the feel of his soft delicate hands, the very scent of him; it would have taken far more after over 7 years living together than a horsehair beard glued on with spirit gum and grey ash mixed with macassar smeared through the hair to fool Watson.

It hadn't even fooled Mary particularly well, which only went to show how shaken by the whole case Holmes had been.

But there had been no patch of blood, no bloodstained coat, no badly-scuffed shoe left behind at Nine Elms when the world had erupted in fire.

His breath hitched in his chest; his throat felt swollen, his eyes hot. His cheeks were wet; wonderingly, he touched them lightly with his fingertips then looked at the tears that wet his fingers. He gritted his teeth and tried to blink the tears away, but he may as well have tried to blink away the sea.

He rolled over and pressed his face into his pillow, giving himself over to the harsh racking sobs that had threatened to overwhelm him from the moment Clarky had left the room.

Holmes, dead. He wished he were dead too.

"John, please, the doctor said -"

"Mary, my dear, I am quite aware of what the doctor said; my ears may have been ringing for a time, but the explosion did _not_ render me deaf!" snapped Watson as he pulled on his shirt. He paused and glanced up at Mary, her face registering shock and hurt at his rebuke. He sighed and held his hand out to her, drawing her closer to him.

"My dear, I know you are only concerned for me, but trust me – there is nothing further they can do for me here," he said, his tone more gentle. "If I have to lie there in that bed for much longer, I shall go mad through boredom. I need to be on my feet and keeping myself occupied."

Mary frowned as she studied his face. He kept his eyes low, as though there were something he were not telling her.

"John, you're not going back to Limehouse," she said, a warning note in her voice.

"And what makes you think I might be going there, hmm?" asked Watson non-committally as he tucked his shirt into his trousers and hitched up his braces, reaching for his waistcoat. She helped him put it on, his left shoulder still stiff and painful.

"Because I know you, and I know you won't rest until you find out what's happened to him," she replied quietly.

He paused again as he did up his collar and glanced down at her.

"You can't deny it, can you?" she pressed.

"What would be the point?" he muttered.

She pressed herself against his chest, looking up at him pleadingly. "Please, John. Don't go. There's nothing for you there."

He gently squeezed her shoulders. "I won't know that until I see for myself," he told her simply.

"Then I'm coming with you," she said, setting her shoulders back firmly.

"Absolutely out of the question, Mary!" cried Watson, turning away and reaching for his coat. "It's no place for a lady."

"That Adler woman evidently didn't think so," retorted Mary, a note of bitterness in her voice. He turned back to her, his blue eyes widening in shock. "How did you...!"

Mary merely glared at him, her lips set in a thin hard line.

"Mary, it's not what you think -"

"Isn't it? What _should_ I think, John?"

"Mary, please – darling -"

"Don't call me that." Her voice was low and hard. She stepped back away from him. "Go on then. Go. I can't stop you."

He frowned in confusion, then shook his head slowly. "I don't understand you, Mary," he admitted.

She stared at him inscrutably, then turned on her heel and walked away.


	25. Chapter 25

Watson limped slowly along the tow path, his cane beating out his stride like an echo of his footfalls.

He paused beside the water's edge where only hours ago the _Cessarine Majeste_ had rode at anchor; now, only fragments of wood floated on the oil-slicked surface of the dark waters to betray where once she had been. He stared into the water for a while. He could understand how Holmes had found an almost hypnotic attraction to it; after a while the pattern on the surface made by light playing off the swirls and eddies seemed to almost draw one in, in spite of one's self. He gave a brief shudder and turned away.

He moved away towards the spot where he had been found. He and Irene had been thrown further than Holmes by the blast; he scoured the area carefully with his eyes looking for any signs or clues there. Irene apparently had disappeared before the police found him; at any rate, certainly he had been found alone. Whether Irene had left of her own volition or otherwise, he had no idea. A splash of colour caught his eye; it was a ragged square of cerise taffeta silk torn from a sleeve, caught on a corner of the remaining wall. Striding closer, he plucked it free, examining the dusty fragment carefully. It still held a faint trace of Irene's Parisian perfume. Straightening up, he glanced around, but there were no other signs that the woman had ever been there at all. He hoped that wherever she was, she was not too badly hurt, though Irene had proved herself more than capable of looking after herself on more than one occasion – and to all intents and purposes, it did rather appear that once again she had fled to save her own skin and left himself and Holmes to fend for themselves.

So much for all her protestations of being concerned for Holmes then.

Turning, he limped back towards the last place he had seen Holmes, close to the water's edge, eyes sweeping over the ground relentlessly as he approached the canal once more, putting Irene from his mind for the moment. She had already caused him trouble enough.

The edge of the tow path here was damaged, the paving slabs thrown up and back from the water's edge by the force of the blast. A nearby brick shed had collapsed; Watson limped slowly passed the scattered bricks and segments of wall, barely sparing it a glance -

And then stopped, as something caught his eye. Something small, bright and shiny amongst the wreckage of the wall. He drew closer, finally dropping stiffly to one knee as he reached out to gently lift up a pocket watch.

Holmes' watch. He would have known it anywhere; how often had he seen it in the hand of its owner? By some miraculous chance, it was unharmed and still ticking. He stared down at it in the palm of his hand for long minutes, then reverently closed it and tucked it away safely in his inside pocket.

He turned his attention to the rubble, trying now to see it as Holmes would have done.

He wondered how he had missed the unmistakeable signs that a body had lain here – bricks and stonework moved aside to lift up a body. The splashes of blood there, denoting where the injured head had bled whilst lying insensible; the amount made his stomach turn slightly, but he calmed his unease by reminding himself that head wounds often bled out of all proportion to their severity and it was no indication of life or death in itself. He touched his fingers to the blood; mostly dry but a few damp patches still here and there.

Holmes had been alive when he was lifted from his temporary tomb, of that Watson was certain – and the traces he could see around showed him that he didn't leave by himself. As he looked now with keener eyes for those tell-tale signs which Holmes would have read as easily as a page from a book, he could start to slowly recreate the scene in his own mind. Here, the mark of a walking stick where its owner had leaned upon it, leaving its round imprint upon the dirt. A scuffed paw print; a small terrier of some breed or other; doubtless Holmes could have told him its precise size and maybe even breed from the spread of its claws.

There, the boot print of walking-stick man, the toe blunt and square. And here, the press of a different boot, round-toed and hobnailed. There were other prints, but they were too blurred and confused to distinguish easily, unlike those two marks.

Hunting a little further out and around the pile of rubble, he found what he was looking for – the trail of a toe digging a faint line through the dirt where an injured man had been half-carried, half-dragged away from his resting place. He followed it step by step as it led away from the water towards the back of the factory and around to a side street, where the trail ended by the marks of the wheels of a 4-wheeled carriage drawn by a pair of horse.

Holmes had to be alive; why else would he have been brought away from the rubble? He'd been upright between two men; not the manner in which a corpse would be carried. Which means that wherever the carriage had gone, it had born the living body of the detective.

With growing excitement, he followed the trail left by the wheels of the carriage until the side street joined the main road, whereupon the wheel marks disappeared into the traffic. He stood on the street corner, staring at the hectic flow of carts, carriages, hansoms and omnibuses that dashed past in both directions and struck the pavement hard with his cane in frustration.

It couldn't end here. But how on earth to pick up the trail?

And then a slow smile broke across his face.

"Old Toby!"

Striding out into the street, he raised his cane and flagged down a passing hansom cab. Climbing up into the seat, he called out, "Pinchin Lane, Lambeth – and be quick!" he ordered, rapping upon the roof with his cane.

"Right you are, Guv!" responded the cabbie as he whipped up the horse, and they were off.


	26. Chapter 26

The police had wanted her to stay, give a statement of some sort, but she'd demurred, urging them to hurry and send help. A friendly, concerned constable with gentle Irish eyes had tried to persuade her to at least let him call a doctor for her, but she'd smiled sweetly at him, patted his arm and then left before he could try to press the matter further.

And really, it was only a few bruises and the odd scratch. She'd had worse in her time; there'd been that time she'd misjudged a mark and got a knife in her back for her troubles, and there was the bullet that had clipped her side back in Georgia. She'd been lucky to get away with a slight concussion, a cut to her forehead that looked far worse than it actually was, and a bruise to her cheek, really. The doctor had taken the brunt of the blast, shielding her with his own body. As for Sherlock...

She'd seen his hand trailing from beneath the rubble. Fallen to her knees, unheeding of the cold hard stone; taken that limp hand between both her own. It had been cold, so cold; she'd thought him dead at first until she'd heard a faint moan. Unbelieving, she'd felt for a pulse - it was weak, fluttering against her fingers through the frail flesh like a butterfly beating its wings against the cage of his skin,but there nonetheless.

She'd tried then to lever the fallen wall off him, but hadn't the strength. Struggled with it, fingernails scraping and snapping painfully on the bricks, unable to shift the immense weight that held him trapped. Reached through a gap in the rubble to twine her dusty fingers in the blood-soaked hair. Fought back tears of frustration over her inability to free him. Leaving him lying there, helpless and wounded, had been harder than she had expected, but the police would be better able to help him than she could. She'd glanced back as she'd moved away reluctantly; that thin pale hand lying limply upon the stones had looked like that of a corpse.

She hurried through the streets, trying to ignore the strange glances she attracted – her dress torn and dusty, still a few traces of blood on her face despite the hasty attempt at wiping it away with a damp handkerchief at the station, her hair tousled and dishevelled, her cheek bruised. She wondered what had happened to her hat. Irrationally she felt tearful at its loss; she'd been moderately fond of it with its cerise-dyed ostrich feather trim and the pretty silver embroidery around the brim. She set her lips firmly; she would not cry over the loss of such a frippery.

The Concierge rose to his feet as she bustled into the foyer of the Swan Hotel, but she paid him no heed as she ran up the stairs heading straight for her room. Her hands fumbled briefly with the key, her hands trembling; once inside, she shut the door and locked it before turning and placing her back against it. She drew a deep shuddering breath, then strode away from the door, pulling off her coat and starting to strip out of the constricting dress and corset as she made her way to the bathroom. She turned the hot water on full and threw a handful of jasmine and rose-scented bath salts into the water, watching them swirl and dissolve in the steaming water as she slowly peeled off her stockings then slipped off her silk chemise. She rubbed her bare arms distractedly as she watched the bath slowly fill. She needed to wash all the brick dust and detritus off her skin and out of her hair.

Maybe she could scrub away the feelings of guilt along with it. Somehow though, she doubted it.

She looked at the traces of his blood still on her fingers, and finally she gave way to tears.

* * *

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby, two-storied brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth; it looked much the same as the last time Watson had been there, on a similar errand to this – except that time he had been doing the bidding of Holmes, and this time it was in search of Holmes himself. Striding up to the door of number 3, he noted the house was as shabby as ever. A cacophony of barking erupted the moment he banged on the door.

He had to knock for some time before there was a glint of candlelight behind the blind of the dusty window upstairs above the door which was raised so a lanky, lean old man with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck and a pair of blue-tinted glasses could peer out at him. "Go off with you, you noisy lout!" he cried, shaking a fist.

"Ah, Mr Sherman!" Watson called up. "Exactly the man I wanted to see!"

Sherman peered down at Watson curiously. "Do I know you?" he asked. "Wait, wait, yes! Now I recall! You're that doctor fellow, Mr Sherlock's friend!"

"The very same," Watson assured him. Sherman waved a scrawny hand at him.

"Wait there, wait there; I'll be down directly!" he cried as he ducked back inside. A moment later there was the rattling of bolts being withdrawn, and the door opened. "Come in, come in! Mr Sherlock will be wanting Toby again then I take it?"

"The very same," agreed Watson. He followed Sherman down the narrow pathway between the cages, careful to avoid the stoat as it gnashed its teeth at him from its hutch, and inching cautiously past the badger (having been warned about its proclivities for biting before). The light was as dim and uncertain as before, and glancing, glimmering eyes peered down upon him from every nook and cranny.

"Here he is sir; here's old Toby. Getting on a bit now, but his nose is still as keen and true as ever!"

Watson accepted the lead of the cross-breed mutt; half spaniel and half lurcher, long-haired and lop-eared, Toby was hardly the most handsome of dogs, and his clumsy waddling gait was not one to inspire confidence in the white and brown dog. But the greying muzzle sniffed the air eagerly enough, and the liquid brown eyes were keen.

Toby sniffed his hand carefully, and his long shaggy tail began to swing happily in recognition. He was quite happy to waddle along by Watson's side, and the doctor led him back out to the waiting hansom.

"Corner of Commercial and Lowell, driver!" he called. The cabbie looked concerned. "That's the Ratcliff, sir; are you sure you want to be going there?"

"I am," replied Watson as he settled himself into the cab, Toby curling up comfortably at his feet. He rapped his cane smartly upon the roof, and with a resigned shake of the head the cabbie snapped the reins and they were off again.

Upon arriving back near the wharf, Watson walked the dog over to the pile of rubble. Toby willingly jumped up onto the rubble, sniffing around eagerly. He thrust his nose at the bloodstains then looked up at Watson, his great tail swinging as he cocked his head expectantly.

"Go to it, Toby!" urged Watson. "Find Holmes!"

Toby bayed in response, then with one further circuit of the pile of rubble he was off, straining eagerly at the leash, and Watson was hard-pressed to keep up. The dog made directly for the main road, and after sniffing here and there around the edge of the road, he gave a lurch to the left, pulling Watson off westwards down Commercial Street.

The hunt was on.


	27. Chapter 27

It was pain that woke him.

He hung from his manacled wrists, twisting slowly, his feet dangling clear of the floor. His left forearm was one long flame of pain from wrist to elbow, and as he drew breath he felt sweat standing out upon his face. He carefully kept his breathing slow and steady, like that of one unconscious, though it took a supreme effort of will to keep silent.

It was easier to keep still anyhow. His head ached; a dull pulsing throb like a slow, steady tapping at the base of his skull. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he opened them slowly and stared down at the floor.

He was shirtless, clad only in his trousers. He could see his bare feet; looking at his left ankle as it dangled there a good twelve inches above a bare wooden floor, he could see the joint was swollen and bruised. He wouldn't be walking on that any time soon – assuming he could get out of his current predicament, which he was dubious of given the state of his arm. Hanging like this would not be good for it.

Footsteps approached him; the old man with the walking stick, and someone else. Whoever it was, he wore expensive handmade shoes and dark charcoal-grey trousers. A hand reached up towards his face; he closed his eyes and deliberately let his head remain limp as strong fingers closed upon his jaw and tilted his head back so that the light fell full upon his face.

"I think perhaps you misjudged the amount of chloroform needed, Mr McKenzie, given his head injury," remarked the cultured voice of the stranger from the carriage. "We want him helpless and tractable, not dead or comatose, after all. He is of no use to us like this."

"He could be faking, sir; he's a tricky one and allus has been." The voice of McKenzie was low and surly.

"Unlikely," replied the cultured voice as Holmes' face was turned this way then that. "He seems feverish. Are you certain your boys did not rough him up a little before delivering him to me?"

"That's the way we found him," replied McKenzie.

"Indeed," drawled the other slowly. A gloved thumb pressed at Holmes' mouth, parting the lips slightly, and then another thumb pressed lightly at Holmes' eyelid, peeling it open. With a supreme effort of will Holmes relaxed his eyes, overcoming his blink reflex and letting his gaze go dull and vacant, not focusing upon the faces below him. After a moment, the pressure against his eyelid and lips was removed and he allowed his eye to close as his head lolled down to his chest once more.

"I don't like the look of him. Let him down," said the gentleman. "I don't think he's going to cause us any trouble, and I need him alive for now."

"But sir-" McKenzie started to protest but the gentleman must have given him a look or signal of some sort, for he backed down immediately. "Where shall we put him?"

"Put a pallet down in the cellar and leave him there."

A chair was pushed over next to Holmes; he felt hands grasping his manacled wrists as he was lifted from behind; the manacles were unfastened from whatever hook or protuberance they had been hung from, and the sudden pain as his arms dropped cause him to groan in spite of himself as he was lowered to the floor.

"See, I said he was faking it!" snapped McKenzie, and suddenly Holmes was dragged up into a sitting position by his hair.

"Well, Mr Holmes, are you back with us in the land of the living?" asked the gentleman. Holmes kept his eyes closed, feigning half-consciousness. In truth, it wasn't hard; he felt light-headed and ill, and wished McKenzie would let him lie down again.

He was suddenly kicked hard in the ribs by the man to his left; he felt something give with a sickening crunch inside, and cried out, his eyes flying open with the sudden agonising pain.

"Enough, damn you! I told you I wanted him alive! McKenzie, keep your dogs leashed!" roared the gentlemen as Holmes rolled over onto his right side with a low groan, temporarily blinded by pain. He was dimly aware of the two men being ordered away, McKenzie himself shuffling back, as the gentleman crouched down in front of Holmes.

"My apologies for your treatment, Mr Holmes," he said quietly. "Please believe me when I say that I do not mean you any harm at this present time; I'm afraid McKenzie bears an old grudge against you however, and his bully boys can be a trifle... overenthusiastic, I'm afraid."

"Who are you?" Holmes managed to gasp, focusing upon the man with difficulty.

"Dear me, Mr Holmes, you don't recognise me?"

Holmes frowned, staring at him. "Wait... I do," he breathed. "Lord Coward."

Coward smiled. "In the flesh," he nodded.

"What do you want with me?" demanded Holmes, struggling up awkwardly upon his right elbow. "Last time we were face to face, you were doing your damnedest to shoot me. I thought you were in Pentonville?"

Coward continued to smile. "All in good time, Mr Holmes, all in good time." He placed a hand upon Holmes' broken ribs, and Holmes tensed. Coward exerted a light pressure and Holmes cried out in pain, falling back to the floor.

"Lie still; it'll hurt less," suggested Coward almost solicitously. "You need not fear for your life; you are much more valuable to us alive than dead right now, Mr Holmes."

Holmes lay back and turned his face away from Coward; the former Home Secretary's words were far from reassuring.

Coward took something from his pocket; Holmes glanced back at the sound of a stopper being withdrawn from a bottle. He watched as Coward poured chloroform into his handkerchief, and then the man smiled in what Holmes supposed was meant to be a reassuring manner.

"Don't fight it, Holmes; this is for your own good."

Holmes closed his eyes even before the vapours began to fill his nose and throat; he managed one brief sound of protest, muffled by the cloth held firmly over his nose and mouth, and then darkness washed over him once more.


	28. Chapter 28

Even before he opened his eyes, he knew he was no longer in the wooden-floored room; he was seated in a carriage which was in motion. The swaying of the carriage made the nausea from the chloroform feel worse, and he bit his lip as bile rose in his throat, hot and sour. He blinked drowsily, his eyelashes batting against the silk cloth bound over his eyes, blindfolding him.

He was sat – or rather, slumped – in an upright position against someone; he could feel that he was swathed in a blanket which would restrict his movement if he tried to escape. Not that he felt particularly inclined to try at this moment; his left arm throbbed with a dull, hot pain, and every indrawn breath was pierced with knife-like heat along his left side. His head ached worse than ever; all in all, he felt thoroughly wretched and he wasn't sure but that he wouldn't have preferred to have remained unconscious.

Beneath the blanket he was restrained by a pair of iron darbies about his wrists and a broad leather belt that encircled his torso and upper arms. He almost laughed at that; he had never felt less capable of escaping, but it seemed Coward wished to take no chances. He wondered just what it was that Coward was so determined to keep him alive for; certainly the former minister had had ample opportunity to revenge himself upon the one who had destroyed Blackwood and his aims of a new world order.

He shifted his attention to the person he was slumped against, who had an arm about his shoulders to prevent him falling as the carriage swayed around a corner (_left turn onto smoother cobbles, moving slightly uphill, echo as from glass-fronted buildings therefore passing shops – ah, now a right turn, sounds of traffic, paper seller calling the evening edition of the Standard, brief sound of music – Wagner's __Tannhäuser__ – playing presently at the Theatre Royal – ah hah, Drury Lane!_); a masculine body, with a familiar scent of sandalwood and a faint trace of incense. Ah. It seemed Lord Coward was determined to no longer leave his prisoner to the tender mercies of the hired lackeys then.

A sharp left then right turn (_Bow Street, heading north-west_) caused his stomach to give a rebellious heave and he tried to stifle a groan, only partially successful.

"Awake are we, Mr Holmes?" mused Coward quietly; Holmes jerked as Coward's breath ghosted past his ear rather closer than he had expected. Coward's arm tightened about his shoulders, forestalling his instinctive move to pull away. Holmes lifted his head slowly and swallowed, grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth.

Coward fished something out of his pocket with his other hand, and Holmes could hear the faint metallic rasping of a flask being opened. He tensed, and Coward laughed.

"Relax, Mr Holmes; I am not going to chloroform you again just yet."

"You will forgive me if I remain suspicious of your motives," said Holmes tersely. His throat was dry and his mouth parched; his voice came out harsh and cracked.

The cold hard edge of the mouth of a flash was pressed to his lips. "Drink this," ordered Coward.

Holmes instantly closed his mouth, lips pressed firmly together as cold liquid splashed over them to trickle down his chin. Coward sighed. "It is merely water, Mr Holmes. Drink."

Holmes hesitated, then opened his mouth and swallowed the water. It was cool and refreshing; Coward carefully tilted the flask as he gulped it eagerly until all the water was gone. Then a fine linen handkerchief was gently dabbed over his chin and lips, wiping him dry. Holmes rested his head back against the seat unresisting. "Thank you," he said quietly.

The carriage turned left; with the part of his mind noting such things, he recognised the sounds of market holders packing up for the night. _Ah, Long Acre. Heading towards Leicester Square. _He jumped as a soft, almost effeminate hand lightly touched his jaw, tracing fingers across his skin.

"What do you want of me?" he asked quietly. Coward laughed.

"Ah, Mr Holmes, always so suspicious." The light tenor voice held a note of amusement. "I mean you no harm at this present time. Believe me, you are of far more use to me alive than dead. Try to relax." He dropped his hand to rest upon Holmes' thigh.

Holmes stiffened slightly. "Whilst I appreciate the reassurance concerning my continued state of breathing, I remain dubious as to your intentions towards my...ah...person," said Holmes slowly.

Coward leaned closer to him, stroking the side of his face again. "You are in no danger," he said softly. "Why not try to enjoy the ride?"

"I would enjoy it all the more if I could see," replied Holmes.

Coward laughed. "I'm afraid the blindfold stays, Mr Holmes. I've no doubt you've deduced where we are already; I've already experienced your prowess before in that regard."

"Then why bother with it at all?" replied Holmes distastefully.

"Because it lends a certain... frisson," replied Coward. "I find I like the sight of you like this."

The blanket was suddenly tugged away, and Holmes shivered as the cool night air kissed his bare skin. Coward cupped his hand almost tenderly against his cheek, then traced his fingers lightly down Holmes' neck and chest before sliding his flat hand down Holmes' sternum; Holmes gritted his teeth and hissed with pain as the pressure awakened an answering pain in his bruised flesh. The hand paused for a moment, then slid further down over his taut stomach, pressing lower.

Holmes bucked and cried out, guessing at Coward's intentions. "No!"

"No?" echoed Coward, laughing."Mr Holmes, could it be that you are shy, perhaps?" The hand slid lower; it rested now upon the fastening of Holmes' trousers.

"Lord Coward, I fear you are very mistaken about me. I am afraid I am not that way inclined," gasped Holmes, and then cried out again in protest as Coward's hand pressed lower and then cupped him firmly through the fabric of his clothes.

Coward pushed him down upon the seat and covered his mouth with his other hand, leaning heavily upon Holmes' chest as he continued to grope and fondle the helpless man. "No? Are you sure? Believe me, I can be very..._persuasive_..."

Holmes bucked and writhed beneath the body pinning him to the seat; his muffled cries were a mixture of pain and denial.

The hand was removed, to be replaced by Coward's mouth, his tongue forcing its way past his lips to probe his mouth, wet and insistent. His efforts to buck Coward off him redoubled despite the agony in his arm and ribs, and the frantic noises were more akin to screams even as Coward bit down upon his lip, filling his mouth with the sharp coppery taste of his own blood. He gagged, and the tongue returned, thrusting hard as it violated his mouth.

He bit down hard, until his mouth was filled with Coward's blood as well as his own.

Coward drew back with a cry and struck him a hard blow across the face; Holmes' head snapped back and for a moment his vision greyed. He choked upon the blood; he threw his head to one side and vomited, helpless. He could feel blood trickling from his nose and down the side of his face, sticky and warm. He gasped, chest heaving for breath as Coward pushed himself upright.

"I see," said Coward thickly. "I see. Very well. This could have been a pleasant diversion; never mind." There was a sound of a glass bottle being unstoppered; Holmes could picture in his mind's eye the clear liquid being poured into the linen handkerchief as the distinct sharp scent of chloroform reached him. He made a faint, incoherent pleading sound as Coward leaned over him once more.

"Tell me, Holmes; do you truly prefer the chloroform to my kiss? Is the thought of such an act truly so abhorrent to you?" The hand returned to cup his cheek gently.

"Yes," whispered Holmes hoarsely.

Coward sighed, and there was genuine regret in his voice. "Very well," he said softly, and the wet cloth was once more pressed firmly over Holmes' mouth and nose. "Breathe deeply then," said Coward.

Holmes obeyed gladly, this time welcoming the darkness.


	29. Chapter 29

_Author's Note:__ My apologies for the long wait between parts 28 and 29 and the rather brief nature of part 29; I have been rather unwell recently, plagued with constant migraines which are currently under investigation; I am hopeful that the MRI I will be undergoing next week will give us some idea what's going on and lead to some form of effective treatment. In the meantime, I shall endeavour to post up chapters as and when I can, and thank my readers for their forbearance and patience._

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Irene stared down at the river, the gaslights from the bridge reflecting like miniature moons upon the black, oily waters. She stared at her hands as they rested on the stone balustrade; she thought she could still see traces of blood if she stared hard enough at the chipped, broken nails. She pulled her gaze unwillingly from her hands and returned to staring at the water.

He had been gone when she returned to the wharf; she didn't know why she had seemed to expect otherwise, really. She hadn't been exactly thinking straight at the time. She'd sat beside the broken stones for some time, staring at the dried blood; long enough that a bargeman had called up to her from his boat to ask if she was all right, stirring her from her reverie. She'd stood then, and for the first time noticed the new marks – the paw prints of a dog, bloodied mud betraying the splayed paws of a small hound beside those of a man with a walking cane.

No – _two_ sets of prints; two men with canes, two dogs. One man's prints were familiar to her – the good doctor's; she wondered where he'd come by the dog, as the paw prints were not those of Gladstone, she was certain. The other set belonged to an older, heavier man; the imprint of the cane was deeper, the stride shorter. The doctor had come back later and found Holmes gone, and followed with his dog. Dusting off her skirts, she followed the marks as far as the road, where they became obliterated by the traffic.

She'd wandered aimlessly after that, allowing the buffeting crowd that jostled her along the streets guide her footsteps until finally she found herself alone, cast out from press of humanity that thronged the street to catch her breath awhile against the cold stone and steel of Westminster Bridge in the shadow of St Stephen's Tower. She folded her arms upon the stone and rested her head upon them, head canted a little to one side as she continued to stare down into the cold forbidding waters, watching the boats that yet still plied the river even at this time of the evening. London never truly slept; its wakefulness was different to that of New York, she mused. New York's energy was brash and young, the feel of youth and hope. London was an older, more insidious wakefulness; the energy of an older time, one that had no need of sleep any more. It was the wakefulness of a brooding behemoth, its arterial roads and backstreet veins teeming with dark life and swift death, the shadowed gazes of low women, the quick keenness of a stiletto blade before blood hides its betraying silver from the gaze of the moon. Money and lives trading hands and places away from the bright sunlight of respectable society. If New York was where one went to make one's fortune, then London was the place one came to lose it, or be lost one's self. It cared not one whit for a lonely woman who leaned upon one of the many bridges spanning the heart of the Thames and mused upon things lost, amongst them herself and all she held dear.

Her eyes tracked without really seeing the boats below; without fully realising it she followed the movement of a small steamer as it hugged the wall below the silent Houses of Parliament. Something about the boat seemed to ring an alarm bell in her mind, and she straightened up, eyes narrowing as she focussed more fully upon its motion. There were no lights upon the boat – a strange thing at this time of the evening. It was chugging quietly along, a bare span of perhaps feet away from the stone wall as it approached the bridge. She started to walk slowly along the bridge back towards the north bank, never taking her eyes off the boat as she went.

One of the crew on board the boat opened the firebox door to shovel in more coal, and in that brief flare of orange light she could see others on board the boat – a man in a top hat, pointing up ahead with a cane, and two other men holding a third between them. As she watched, the third man's head rolled back, and her eyes widened in recognition. Her breath caught in her throat as the orange light was extinguished; clutching her skirts, she darted between the traffic upon the bridge and thrust her way past the throng upon the other side, fighting her way to the stone balustrade and leaning over in time to see the boat re-emerge from beneath the bridge. In the faint light from the street lights lining the bridge, she could see a little more clearly into the back of the boat as it pulled over closer to a sewer outlet that breached the wall near the waterline. She recognised that grille all too well; had she not climbed inside in the company of that man who sagged between his captors, head lolling back in unconsciousness, the moonlight playing over those pale features, that wild tousled black hair she knew so well?

The boat halted beside the sewer grate, and a shadowy figure stepped across to open the small sallie-gate. As Irene made her way back up to the north bank and along the embankment, she could see the top-hatted figure step across and through the open gate, followed by the two men carrying the unconscious Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
